


Revelations

by oooknuk



Series: Revelations [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biological Experimentation, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 03:57:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10779078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oooknuk/pseuds/oooknuk
Summary: A post-'Revelations' AU. Methos gets into the wrong hands - and the right ones, eventually.





	Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Violence, Rape, Angst, Spookiness and Nastiness. Naughty words, and a dodgy plot.

The concrete felt cold under Methos' body but it was the coldness in his heart that overwhelmed him. He heard Cassandra's footsteps climb the metal stairs, and the heavier footfall of the Highlander approach but he didn't look up. Didn't want to see the judgement in the man's eyes, or the disappointment.

"Are you all right?" MacLeod asked, a little harshly. Well, he had to expect that things had changed.

"Yes," he said shortly, but didn't move. He felt like lead, and Silas' Quickening, the anger of the simple giant towards his treacherous brother still buzzed and stung his senses. A hand on his shoulder....

"Come on, Methos - we can't stay here." Then MacLeod was helping him to stand. Methos swayed a little, and still avoided the other man's eyes. "Methos ..."

"Give me a minute, MacLeod. Why don't you go after Cassandra? She'll need someone."

"So do you, old man," MacLeod said gently and for the first time, Methos found the courage to look directly at the Scot. He saw no blame, no anger. Just pain and weariness. Reluctantly, Methos pushed Mac's hands off his shoulders.

"I'm okay, Mac, honest. Someone needs to clear up here, and get rid of the virus. I know what needs doing. Go after Cassie - she's had a rough few days."

The Scot looked worried. "Are you sure? You look like shit, Methos."

"Yeah, well, you aren't exactly Miss World either, Duncan," he said, gesturing at the torn sweater, and his blood soaked features. "There's a bathroom through there. Go clean up and go home."

"Will you come back?" MacLeod was still not moving.

"Yes, MacLeod, I will. Go, will you?" He turned away and walked to the laboratory, refusing to engage in conversation any further.

He used his pistol to put the monkeys down, and felt grief all over again, remembering Silas's simple minded request for a pet. Then he took the vials of serum and put them in the autoclave, along with any other samples of tissue he found. The few notes on paper he burned, and he erased the computers before pouring petrol everywhere and setting fire to it. He collected his backpack and made his way back out to the old submarine pens to dispose of the bodies. He was disconcerted to find they were gone, before realising that MacLeod must have pushed them into the river before leaving. He was grateful for that - he wasn't sure he was ready to see the heads of his former brothers.

The fire was making enough commotion that he realised he needed to get out now - the Quickenings had caused enough of a disturbance, but the smoke would not be missed, even this far out of town. He faced a hike back into Bordeaux - now he wished he had gone with Duncan, but that would have meant Cassandra again and _that_ he really couldn't face. He devoutly hoped that their paths would not cross again for the next few millennia.

He hastily checked that he was not begrimed by blood or other suspicious substances before walking the fifteen minutes it took to get to the main road and sticking his thumb out to hitch. He hoped he looked innocent, although he felt far from it. He felt like a murderer - funny, he felt that more now after Silas' death than after the thousands he had killed all those centuries ago. But they were strangers - Silas was a friend. And I got him killed, Methos thought bitterly. If I had not dragged him from his wife and his forest, he would be living in simple bliss and would have continued to do so. Caspian, even Kronos, caused him no regrets. But he owed Silas and now the debt would never be paid.

It started to rain, and he was relieved when a sleek late model car pulled up. "Ou vas tu?" the driver asked politely

"Bordeaux, s'il te plait."

"Oui."

"Merci." He climbed in, nodding to the men in the front and back passenger seats.

"You are English?" the man in the back asked. His accent was not French.

"Yes," Methos dissembled.

"Adam Pierson is Welsh actually," the driver said, and Methos tensed. He jerked at the hardness jabbed in his ribs and looked down at the silenced revolver.

"Okay, I think there's been a mistake here, gents. I'm not who you want."

"Oh, you are, Pierson. Trust me," the man with the gun said. Despairingly, Methos saw they were headed back to the submarine base. He wondered who he had crossed now - Watchers? He couldn't see their wrists. He decided his best course of action was keep quiet and hope that he could get out of this with his head intact.

They were back at the base in two minutes, and the car drove inside. He was ordered out of the vehicle. Smoke was pouring out of the interior, blown by the on shore breeze. "What happened?" the driver demanded, pointing at the smoke.

Confused, Methos didn't answer quickly enough for them, and the guy with the gun jabbed him hard in the ribs. "Urk. The fire? How should I know?" He was smashed across the face.

"Stop fucking around, Pierson. We know you were with Koren. We want that virus."

Methos shook his head. "Too late - I burned the lot." That got him another slap. "Look, you can beat me to a pulp. It doesn't change the facts. Go and see if you like."

"Where's Koren?"

"Gone." He didn't want to admit Kronos was dead just yet.

"Explain, and make it good." The driver was the danger, Methos surmised. The gunman was muscle. The other man hadn't said a word and was apparently uninterested in proceedings.

"He left this morning - said we had been discovered and that I was on my own. I destroyed the evidence." That was when Methos discovered he was completely wrong about the power structure.

The silent man motioned to the driver. "Break his left hand, John." Methos was seized roughly and entirely expertly from behind while his hand was grasped and broken by the simple expedient of snapping it across John's bent knee. Methos grunted, and would have collapsed with the screaming pain if he had not been held so tight. Silent man held his jaw. "Now, Pierson, stop screwing us around. We've been watching this base for days. We know who's gone in and out. Koren hasn't left today."

"He's dead," Methos gasped, holding his hand to his chest.

"Dead, how?"

"MacLeod - the man who left before me."

"Who is he?" Silent man demanded.

"Boyfriend ... of the woman you saw. Koren had history with her and abducted her. MacLeod came to get her back. Nothing to do with the virus."

"How come you're still alive?"

"MacLeod has no problem with me. It was personal."

Silent man nodded, and Methos was seized by his collar, his right arm wrenched up behind his back. This meant John could feel his sword, and pulled it from the sheath in Methos' coat. He tossed it to Silent man. "Nice. What other weapons is he carrying?"

He was deftly searched, and his gun and short sword were found and disposed of. Then he was grabbed again and made to walk into the base. The smoke was dying down. "Where is the lab?" Silent man asked. Methos nodded towards the epicentre of the fire. He was punched again. "Jan, go and check. You," grabbing Methos' chin, "have cost me a lot of money. Someone's going to pay for that. Probably you." He glanced down and saw Methos' left hand, which conspicuously lacked the swelling that a broken hand should have. He picked it up, looked at it calmly, and then repeated the action his driver had carried out scant minutes earlier. Methos screamed - the hand wasn't completely healed from the first attack. His wrist was held up while Silent man watched impassively as the broken bones realigned and knit.

Jan returned and reported that nothing remained of the lab, news which gave Methos a tiny amount of satisfaction, but which entirely failed to erase the terror and pain flooding through him. Silent man received the report with equanimity. "I think we just found ourselves something more valuable than the virus. Bring him."

Methos was dragged back into the car, and the vehicle left the base.

 

* * *

Joe Dawson watched the black car drive away with the world's oldest Immortal in the back seat. What the hell was going on? He'd seen the Quickenings, and Duncan drive that bitch Cassandra away. Methos had left a half hour later to hitch, and when it had started to rain, Joe was within a minute of driving along to pick up Methos when he had snagged a lift. His suspicions had been aroused when the car had returned to the base, and when he saw Methos seized and injured - the way the man's features had twisted had been clear even from the distance Joe watched through binoculars - he gave serious thought to mounting a rescue. But they had disappeared inside, and then driven off.

Mac didn't know he was in Bordeaux, but for once Joe wasn't content to leave the Scot to tell him after the fact what had happened. This was too big, and too messy, and MacLeod wasn't exactly behaving rationally about the revelations concerning Methos. Joe had quietly booked a flight, and when Cassandra's watcher had reported their whereabouts, he had trailed Mac in Bordeaux, and back to the submarine base. He had no idea what was going on, except he assumed Koren - Kronos - was dead. He'd seen Mac take on Silas and Caspian, and seen the end of that fight. He'd only picked MacLeod up again at the hotel the next morning - the Scot had looked like crap but had run about like a crazed thing to pet shops all over the town. God knew what that was all about.

He decided that this was too important not to call Mac in on. He dialled the Scot's mobile, and finally got an answer from a female voice. "Who is it?"

"Cassandra, it's Joe. Is MacLeod there?"

Silence. "Joe, where are you?"

"Outside the submarine base. Man, you gotta tell me what happened. Three guys just drove off with our elderly friend and I don't think it was voluntary, if you know what I mean."

"Hold on, Joe." More silence, and then Mac was back, with a backdrop of traffic. "Got more privacy now. Joe, Methos was going to clean up and come back to town. What did you see?"

Joe quickly described what he saw. "Mac, he didn't know them, I think, and they hurt him. What happened with Koren?"

"Kronos is dead, Joe. They all are. There's a virus in that base - Methos was going to destroy it."

"I think he tried - the place was on fire a few minutes ago."

Mac swore. "Joe, I'm coming back out there. Did you get a license, can you check it?"

"I'll try, buddy, but chances are, it's a rental. How long will you be?"

"Just let me get Cassandra on her way, and I'll be there in forty minutes. Wait for me - and Joe, be careful. Wait for me to go in before you. That virus is no joke."

"Okay, pal. Hurry, will ya?"

Joe signed off, and passed the time by worrying after he put the call into his local Watcher's office about the car. The only blessing was the lack of hostility in MacLeod's tone towards the old man - he hoped to God the two of them had settled their differences. Methos was going to need all the friends he could get.

 

* * *

They didn't drive far - back to Bordeaux and to the airport where Methos was hustled onboard a private jet. Once on board, he was blindfolded and handcuffed, earplugs placed in his ears completing the sensory deprivation. He was hungry and thirsty, not to mention exhausted and terrified. He could not really judge how long they flew, and he was asleep when they landed despite the awkward position in which he was sitting. He was slapped awake, but the blindfolds and earplugs remained as he was manhandled off the plane. The smell of the air seemed to spell out night time for him but he wasn't sure. He was shoved into a car and driven a short distance before being hauled ungently out and dragged along. He heard metal gates opening and closing, doors opening and the change of pressure and temperature which meant he was now inside. People were talking but the earplugs made their speech meaningless. It was a waste of time to struggle - he was gripped tightly by both arms and his feet barely hit the floor. Another door, and then he was released. "Look - whoever's there, I need water, and I need to piss," he pleaded, speaking into the void. He was horribly afraid he had been abandoned when he heard a metal door click shut, but not long after it opened again, and his arms were grabbed. Now, he thought, they have to take the blindfold off. But no such luck - his fly was roughly unbuttoned and a meaty hand grabbed his cock, which shrank at the repulsive touch, and then at the feel of the plastic receptacle. "You've _got_ to be joking," he said, but all that earned him was a slap. Guess they're not joking then, he thought, and did what he could.

He was buttoned up and shoved face down on a hard cot - no water was forthcoming. His arms ached from the position, and his stomach growled unmercifully. Where's my white knight when I need you, Mac? he thought in despair.

Despite the discomfort, and the hunger and thirst, sheer weariness meant he slept, if somewhat uneasily. He only woke when he was seized and hauled upright. Completely disorientated, and dizzy from lack of food, he didn't even pretend to fight as he was dragged along. A series of doors, several with electronic locks - he could hear the distinctive buzz - and then he was pushed into a chair and the blindfold finally removed. He was blinded temporarily by the excessively bright fluorescent light, and blinked to try and clear his vision as the ear plugs were removed. Shit, he thought. The original Immortal nightmare - becoming a lab rat. The room was indeed a laboratory cum operating suite, and he shivered at the sight of the operating table with the convenient straps. A white coated stranger walked into view. "Adam Pierson?"

"And you are?" he said croakily.

"None of your concern." Someone behind him undid his cuffs. "Undress, please."

"And if I refuse?" he asked, for the look of the thing. White coat pointed at the guards Methos had not noticed until now. Armed and in no mood for any crap from him. "Okay. But could I at least ... urk..." He was jabbed in the kidney from behind.

"No talking. Do what you're told." the guard said.

Methos capitulated, and took his clothes off, which were immediately removed, along with his watch. He wrapped his arms around him, cold in the air-conditioning. "Stand on the scales," he was ordered. He was weighed, his height measured, and then told to sit while a vast amount of blood was taken. His eyes, teeth and ears were examined and all the results were carefully recorded in total silence by White coat. "Bring him next door," White coat ordered, and he was placed on a table and X-rayed, before a MRI was performed. Someone, he thought, has got a lot of money invested in this, he thought. It did not exactly comfort him.

He was returned to the original room, and made to stand near a sink. "Provide a urine sample," he was ordered, and a cup held near his cock. Oh yeah, you try peeing on command, he nearly said, but didn't. At least it was better than giving the stool sample. He was getting seriously annoyed. It wasn't the lack of dignity and privacy so much as the impersonal way he was ordered about and manhandled - he'd been in slave auctions where he'd been treated with more humanity. At the moment, there was nothing he could do about.

He was subjected to the indignity of an enema which didn't hurt, and electrical stimulation of the prostate to obtain a semen sample, which made him scream and bite his lip. "Is that _really_ necessary?" he said through gritted teeth, but was ignored. After his heart and breathing rates were measured, along with his blood pressure (all of which would be sky high from stress, he knew), he was taken out to a sterile white bathroom and hosed off, held down as he was scrubbed from top to toe. As he was hauled up, he fainted. When he came to, he was back in the lab, strapped to a gurney. White coat was there with a clipboard. "Are you prone to faints?" he asked Methos.

"No, you bloody idiot! I haven't eaten or had anything to drink for over two days!" He expected to be struck for his pissy tone, but White coat merely nodded, made a note, and then went to a wall phone.

"He's ready. No - perfect health, so far as I can tell. The bloods will confirm that. Any time you want."

No food or water was offered, but White coat inserted a canula and attached a drip, presumably with glucose in it. Methos was left alone with the guards for more than an hour. The drip was beginning to help - he didn't feel so light-headed, but his mouth was horribly dry. He had a nasty suspicion that whatever they had planned meant that having an empty stomach would be an advantage.

White coat returned and told the guards to move Methos to the operating table where he was strapped face down, his chin supported, and a metal gag in his mouth. He couldn't see the rest of the room in this position, but he heard at least two sets of footsteps enter the room. "We aren't offering anaesthesia?" a new voice asked coolly, as metal trays were clanked, and equipment began to whirr.

"Not necessary," White coat said calmly. Bastard, Methos thought. "Set the camera rolling." Bright lights flooded the room. "We begin by looking at the response to superficial bruising." Methos clenched his buttocks in fear - he had been right on the money, he was a lab rat.

Someone - one of the guards - struck him across the shoulders with what felt like a cane, and Methos yelled behind the bit. Three blows, and then silence, broken only by clinical comments such as "You'll note the dispersal of the subcutaneous pooling ... can we focus on that blue light? .... take a skin sample please ..." He felt the sting as a layer of skin was scraped from the places where the blow landed. "Right - next step please."

This involved heavier blows, more of them, on the buttocks, followed by the sampling. "Interesting, the way the wounds heal - everything in the correct order, just very fast," the stranger said.

"Incision."

"Deeper incision."

"Do we take a toe or finger?"

"Both"

Methos screamed fruitlessly as his left pinkie and left smallest toe were cut off. He felt close to vomiting. "Heart rates getting a bit high," the third man said.

"Take a break. I think we've seen enough for now. I want to see the results on those samples ASAP..." He was unstrapped from the table and as he was pulled upright, he fought like a wild thing, not caring that he would be beaten to the floor. He couldn't endure this treatment and not protest. They easily grappled him back on the gurney, the torn out drip was calmly replaced, and the added torment of a catheter added. "Why are you doing this?" he asked White coat, somewhat pointlessly. "I'm a human being, you know."

"That remains to be seen, Pierson. For my money, I don't think you are, but whatever you are, you are one hell of a catch." White coat smirked in the first display of emotion Methos had seen from him.

"How long do you plan on keeping me? People will notice - I have friends, family ... "

White coat interrupted. "Pierson, Adam. Unmarried. Parents, William and Evadne Pierson, deceased, Wales. No siblings, no cousins. And your friends will be heartbroken when a rather decomposed corpse is found in a few weeks time with your passport and wallet. The dentals records will match, I assure you. No one will ever know you are here. You never know, Pierson - you might get lucky and die sooner rather than later." He smirked again and left the room.

Methos' mind raced. MacLeod and Joe would not be fooled by the deception, but how would they locate him? He could be anywhere in the world now. And once these people discovered he was actually Immortal, no way would he ever be allowed out. For the first time in a long time, Methos thought about praying for death. A long life in these conditions was not living at all.

 

* * *

It didn't take long for MacLeod and Joe to confirm that Methos had done a thorough job of destroying any trace of the virus or the records of its creation, but the relief that would have given them was tempered by the knowledge that Methos had been abducted. Mac was in no doubt of that from Joe's description. They had little choice but to return to their hotel - Mac moved to Joe's after Cassandra's departure - and wait. it was two days before Joe got a call from Watcher's Head Quarters about the vehicle - it wasn't a rental but belonged to a company called Imaginetech. It took a week before it emerged Imaginetech was a subsidiary of BioKnight.

"BioKnight," Mac said. "That's a biotech company."

"Got it in one."

"A biotech company with an Immortal." Mac met the Watcher's eyes. "Fuck."

"You said it, brother."

Mac scoured Bordeaux for traces of Methos' captors, and Joe had the Watchers research BioKnight. Finally he came up with a name. "Joseph Carson worked for them a few years back," he announced.

"Joey Carson?" MacLeod whistled. "But he's...."

"Yep - richer than God. That's how he started up, made his pile working on BioKnight's systems. Do you know him?"

"Amanda knows him. You said he worked there a few years back - so he has no current connection?"

"Not that we're aware of. "

"Could be risky contacting him, Joe. We could handing information on Methos over to someone who'll take his head. Do you know where Amanda is?" Joe mumbled something. "What?"

"I said she ditched her Watcher again -

"Dammit!"

"It's your fault, Mac, for telling her about us."

"Well, now we need her. Joe, do what you can. I want her to approach Carson. Meanwhile, you and I are going to find out what we can on BioKnight."

 

* * *

Methos tried to sleep but the insistent bright lights made it near impossible. He would have been grateful for the blindfold, but didn't dare ask. He couldn't get comfortable either, strapped in as he was. He whiled away the tiresome hours thinking of all the deities he had called on in a long life, but in reality, his hopes, slim as they were lay with MacLeod noticing he was missing, working out this was involuntary and then somehow, impossibly, finding him and rescuing him. So basically, old son, you've got two chances - Buckley's and none. At least his last words with the Highlander had been friendly - a small but not neglible comfort.

White coat returned after an interminable period. "Look, could I have some food, or at least some water, please?" Methos asked. He hated to beg, but he hated the indignity of weakness more. White coat looked at him thoughtfully, then nodded at a guard. "Bring a carafe. You two, bring him to the chair." He was unstrapped and carried over. He was stiff and shaky, and could make no protest even if he thought there was any point. The chair into which he was strapped was uncomfortably like that of a dentist's, but with rests on which his arms were tied facing upwards. The drip was removed, but the canula remained. Another was inserted into the underside of his wrist. He was exposed in humiliating fashion, but White coat paid no attention to his nudity. The guard returned with the water, and a cup with a straw. The sips he took were heavenly but that was all he was allowed - the cup was taken away again quickly.

Two other lab-coated men, neither of whom Methos had seen before, joined White coat and both bore files and clipboards. One carried an insulated container, from which he withdrew a series of vials.  White coat busied himself attaching leads to Methos' chest and to his forehead. "Would someone tell me what's happening?" Methos asked.

The older of the two strangers gave him a look of distaste, but the younger replied, somewhat to Methos' surprise. "We're going to test a range of toxins on you."

"Until you find one that kills me?"

"Oh, I really don't think that will happen, do you, Mr Pierson?" he said with false brightness. "You know, you really do have the most interesting metabolism. The blood work was quite fascinating."

"You do realise you are playing God with a living breathing human being, don't you?" he said desperately.

"Possibly. What you are is a walking test laboratory for biological warfare agents. If we can make more like you, we will, and if we can't, we're going to get good value out of you. Now shut up."

The camera lights were turned on and Methos closed his eyes. He didn't want to watch them inject him with poison, but he felt the first dose enter his veins, burning like fire. He heard White coat announce calmly, "Strychnine injected 09.14 hours. Subject conscious and alert." Christ, no, he wanted to scream. Of all the ... but the poison was already taking effect. He convulsed and felt his face pull back in the typical rictus, unable to scream for the spasms in his chest and gut. His arms and legs strained against their bindings, and over his agony, he heard the sound of White coat's narration, recording heart rate, blood pressure, symptoms. The drug forced his body to struggle into exhaustion and he died of suffocation as his chest muscles and diaphragm failed.

He gasped back into life. "Subject reanimated, 10.36 hours," White coat said. "That was most illuminating, Mr Pierson. You are a hard man to kill."

"Get fucked," Methos panted, aching in all his abused muscles.

"Have some more water," White coat said, unperturbed. Methos sucked the offered liquid greedily then glared balefully at his captors.

"What is this supposed to prove?" he snarled at the three of them.

"I think you know. I think you know exactly what the results of our tests will be. Tell me, Mr Pierson, how old are you?"

"You've got my passport."

"Hmmm." White coat made a note. "Batrachotoxin next - skip the prussic acid and botulism," he said to his colleague.

After the hideous symptoms of the strychnine, the batrachotoxin was almost pleasant. A creeping paralysis, an unpleasant sensation of suffocation, but at least the pain was nothing compared to the other. He slipped into death almost peacefully.

They kept it up for hours, how long, he wasn't sure. Too long, that much was certain. The nerve gases were the worst. He took a little comfort in the mess he was making for them, and realised now why his bowels and his stomach had been kept empty. He repeatedly vomited up bile, and his guts tried to purge themselves but there was nothing to come out. Finally his exhaustion and weakness were defeating the exercise and they called a halt. He was carried, not back to the gurney, but to another room and laid on a cot, his arms manacled to the wall, his feet tied likewise to a bolt in the base of the bed, but at least he could turn over, the light was dimmed, and he was allowed more water to drink. No food still, just the drip, but compared to how he had spent the day, Methos wasn't complaining. He just hoped that they had got all the data they needed. Another day like that wouldn't kill him, more was the pity. He felt like he had been beaten with a lead pipe, and was totally exhausted, falling asleep almost as soon as he rolled over to face the wall.

To his relief, and surprise, the morning - or whatever time it was when he woke - did not bring more torture. He was taken to the bathroom, showered, given another somewhat pointless enema, then dressed in shapeless hospital robes before being sat down before a tray of real food. Even though it was processed eggs and indifferent white toast, Methos thought nothing had ever tasted so good. They would not release his hands so he was fed like a child. He didn't care, eating every scrap of food, and drinking the juice thirstily. Then he was returned to the cot, where he slept again. When he woke, his blood pressure and pulse were taken, and blood was withdraw from his arm, but nothing, thankfully, was injected.

This process repeated itself several times, marking the passage of a similar number of days he guessed, going by the progress his amputated finger and toe were making towards regrowing. They were waiting for something, or someone, he supposed, not being naïve enough to think they were done with him. He had learned long ago the way to deal with captivity was either to lose oneself entirely in one's mind - safe enough to do when one was abandoned - or to blank the mind completely. Live for the now, avoid thinking about the past, or the implications for the future. Methos was a survivor. He had this down to a fine art. All he had to do was outlive these fuckers - it would only take fifty or so years. Pity they would all be made up of days that were either tedious or terrifying. And he had hoped to spend more time with Joe before the mortal died. Ah well. Something else not to think about.

He knew when they were about to start again. He wasn't put back into clothing, and there was no food for him when he returned from the shower. Sure enough, an hour or so later, White coat came in and ordered him taken away. This was a room he had not seen before, sterile and tiled. Closed ventilation, he noticed, and air locks on the doors. He was strapped to an unpadded steel gurney, attached to monitoring leads and injected with something - this time White coat did not name it in his presence. The man disappeared. The room was brilliantly lit, with a window covering one wall - Methos knew he was being observed, and wearily wondered what delightful substance he had been injected with that was too dangerous for them to be in the same room with. He soon found out. The convulsions started at the same time as the blinding headache. Blood started to pour from his nose, choking him, and later, from other orifices. His hands and feet became numb but his guts were full of molten lead. His vision gradually disappeared into a red haze - bleeding from the eyeballs he guessed. He vainly tried to cough up the blood filling his lungs, and choked to death still spitting up his life's essence.

To his surprise, he was alone when he revived, and still covered in blood. He coughed and vomited the blood which had clotted in his chest and in his stomach, the smell and taste nauseating him. Ebola, or Ebola-like, he guessed. A demonstration too, he also guessed. He was left in his own gore for a long time, until two HazMat suited people came in, hosed him down with disinfectant, scrubbed him until his skin was raw, and then took him into an adjoining room, which was padded but unfurnished. The air was chilly and he hunched up in the corner, his legs drawn up tight, shivering from the after-effects of the infection as much as from the cold.

He was left for hours before White coat came in with two guards. "Did I pass?" Methos asked.

"Oh yes, and then some. You really are going to be most valuable," White coat said cheerfully. "And our clients are pleased."

"Glad to help," Methos grated out. "But is it fair to test on a non-human?"

"You're human enough for our purposes. Get up." He was taken, not back to the cell, but back to the lab where he was put through the punishing and humiliating tests he had endured on his first day. When he saw the probe being greased for the semen sample, he protested.

"You could just let me jerk off, you know. Might help keep me sane."

White coat inserted the probe regardless. "Takes too long, and your mental health is of no concern. Feel free to go mad, all we need is your perfectly healthy body." And then he powered up the probe. Methos struggled and screamed but his body produced the results they wanted.

"It wouldn't kill you to give me an anaesthetic, you fucker," he said bitterly.

"It won't kill you full stop. We've proved that. Shut up."

Maybe I'll take his advice. Going crazy would at least pass the time, he thought sourly. It probably was going to happen anyway.

 

* * *

"Still can't get hold of Amanda?" Joe asked MacLeod who stalked into Le Blues Bar with the grace and suppressed threat of an angry lion. It had been two weeks and neither of them had had any contact with her.

"No, Dammit. Joe, are you sure ...?"

"Mac - I told you. Putting out an APB with the Watchers is the last thing Methos would want."

"Joe, you've been saying that for four weeks while Methos has been God knows where! What damn use are the Watchers if they can't help in a case like this?"

Joe felt for Mac's anguish, he really did. "Simmer down, Mac. Either Methos has been dead all that time, and there's nothing we can do about it, or he's alive, and he'll stay that way. You know him - he's a survivor."

"Joe, you know what they could be doing to him." Mac's eyes spoke of the big Scot's weariness and fear for his friend, and Joe was hard put to resist the plea.

"I know, buddy, but he's an Immortal. You just gotta be patient. Maybe you should try Carson after all ... wait a sec ..." He answered the bar's phone. "Dawson ici. Yeah, Joe Dawson." He listened quietly as the accented voice on the other end explained patiently that his presence was required at the local police station - and why. He hung up. "Mac - that was the police. They've found a body. Adam Pierson's passport was on it."

MacLeod stared in horror. "Was the head attached?"

"I don't know. Are you coming?"

MacLeod drove, neither man wanting to speculate. They were greeted by a female police inspector who explained a corpse had been found washed up downstream on the Gironde River, in Bordeaux. Would Monsieur Dawson be able to fly there to identify the body? He was apparently named as the emergency contact. Monsieur Dawson was able to indeed, and so was Monsieur MacLeod, Adam Pierson's close friend. They were put on a commercial flight and flown to Bordeaux, collected at the airport by a police car, and driven to the police morgue. Joe was warned the body was in very poor shape, but the sound MacLeod made when the mangled corpse was revealed wasn't from shock, but pure relief. The head was gloriously intact.

"It's not him," Joe pronounced, and despite the urgings of their police companion, he remained adamant. Dental records would be checked, he was told, and he told them the body must be that of a thief who had taken Monsieur Pierson's wallet.

They hid their feelings until they were back on the plane. "Someone wanted us to think he was dead," MacLeod said quietly.

"You bet. I was going to suggest you make contact with Carson yourself. It could be risky but we're out of options."

"I have to try, Joe. This is driving me nuts."

Joe couldn't resist a dig. "Four weeks ago you were planning to take his head yourself."

Mac looked uneasy. "That was before I realised he was on our side."

"And he only had to kill one of the Horsemen to make you realise that too," Joe said sarcastically. "The day that woman ran into you, Mac, was a lousy one, it really was. Methos isn't a bad guy - you've known him for two years, you know he's not a killer now if he ever was. I don't see how you could let Cassandra change your mind like that."

"You weren't there, Joe," Mac said hoarsely. "You didn't see him gloating over it."

"No, but I've seen the old man push your buttons before, MacLeod. Seems to me, he had you jumping through the hoops he needed to."

"To get me to kill Kronos."

"Aw, shit, MacLeod. No - to keep you safe, and to stop that madman. Tell me, if all this had happened, and Cassandra hadn't been around, you'd be calling Methos a hero, wouldn't you?" MacLeod had no answer. "I give up."

"Joe, I know - I know I was wrong. But he did manipulate me," Macleod said stubbornly.

"So?"

"So - nothing. Let's just get the old bastard back and then we can argue about it with him."

Joe sighed. He missed the old man for his own sake, and he had sufficient imagination to work out what could be happening to him. He also missed what MacLeod had had with Methos - he just hoped the departure of Cassandra meant that if ... no, dammit, _when_ , the 'old bastard' came home, there was some chance of that friendship reviving. Methos was good for Macleod. He didn't let him brood.

 

* * *

Reluctantly, MacLeod finally sent an email to Joey Carson, asking for an urgent discussion concerning rumours and investigations into 'extreme longevity', and mentioning Amanda's name. The beautiful thief was still incommunicado, never a good sign with Amanda, and her breaking radio silence usually meant trouble for MacLeod. It took a week before he got an cautious answer to his message, suggesting Mac fly to Geneva where Carson was based, and that they have dinner in a fashionable and safely crowded restaurant there. Mac agreed immediately, and arranged a flight.

First death had taken Carson before the age of thirty, and his apparent youthfulness was a distinct advantage in the computer industry. His suits and accessories, the discreetly expensive watch, and the brushed platinum cufflinks said quietly and firmly that this man was wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. Not unusual for an Immortal of MacLeod's age - but Carson was only sixty. It was safe to assume he was well cushioned for the coming centuries. He held out a manicured hand. "Ah, Duncan MacLeod. Nice to see you. Tell me, how is Amanda?"

"Fine, the last time I saw here. She's off on a jaunt. I would have waited for her to talk to you, but it's important." They sat, and Carson ordered for both of them, Mac being too distracted to care what he ate. "Joey," he said finally, "this involves another Immortal - a good friend of mine and Amanda's. He's in trouble. I have to know if you will help."

"Any friend of Amanda's is a friend of mine - up to a point. I operate on a strictly live and let live basis. Is this guy a hunter?"

"As far from it as you can imagine."

"Well, go ahead," Carson said with some amusement, sipping his wine. He listened carefully as Mac explained, and his expression darkened.

"Damn," he said when MacLeod finished. "Your friend is playing with the sharks on this."

"I don't think he chose to. I think Koren was involved and Adam got caught up by accident. We have to get him back."

"Easier said than done, I assume you realise. BioKnight have labs all over the world, and if they are working on something with military involvement, they're not exactly going to advertise Pierson's presence."

"You have to help, Joey. Not just for Adam - for all of us. What if they had found out about you when you worked for them?"

Carson visibly shuddered. "Please - it was a recurring nightmare. Only the money made it worth it. Look, Duncan, I'll make enquiries. It was a while back, you have to realise. And even if I can locate him - how do you plan to get him out? Their security's bloody good - I know, I helped design it."

"Then you can ...."

Carson shook his head. "It doesn't work like that, Duncan. I don't have blueprints, and I wasn't the only person working on it. That was five years ago, and they're cutting edge. The systems will have changed, I guarantee." He suddenly grinned. "Mind you, if anyone can break in, Amanda can. I used her to test our plans. She's a smart girl."

"Yeah, when she's around. Joey, please just find out what you can."

They parted after the meal, Carson promising to do what he could. MacLeod was only slightly reassured - Carson had made it seem impossible.

He flew back to Paris and found himself at Methos' flat. Joe had a key and was keeping the place maintained. There was no distinctive odour that said 'Methos' to him but the sight of the throne chair, and the books, the bottle of whiskey on the side table, all reminded Mac of happier days. Not just before Methos was abducted, but before Kronos. Evening spent getting quietly and steadily drunk on good scotch, or playing chess, watching some utterly idiotic videos (Mac never knew where the old man found them but he swore he must have scoured Paris for ones as bad as he regularly inflicted on the Scot). Quiet nights, talking about Alexa, and about other lost loved ones. Precious times when he glimpsed a tiny part of Methos' aged and complex soul. But then Kronos had come, and so had Cassandra. Mac had thought it all a lie, only to retrieve his faith again in those few fevered minutes when they fought together, not quite back to back but close enough, and then the Quickenings had flowed back and forth between them. Something powerful had had happened then, but there had been no time to explore it. If only he hadn't listened to him, and waited to give him a lift back, MacLeod thought savagely. Methos had been in no shape to fight again - the man had been exhausted and grief-stricken, trembling with emotion and tiredness. He hadn't even looked up when Cassandra had wanted to take his head - it was that which showed to Mac the depth of his sorrow over Silas.

He sat on the throne chair. "Methos, hold on. We're coming," he whispered to the empty room. The silence refused to answer him.

 

* * *

Methos came to welcome the time when he was finally dragged back to his little cell and chained up. It meant the end of another encounter with one of the facility's hideously inventive organisms, inevitably resulting in his painful death, recorded revival, and the humiliation of the exhaustive medical exam at the end. With the amount of spunk they taken from me, Methos thought sourly, they could inseminate half of China. He could only assume that his semen appeared to be viable since they kept taking it - much good it would do them, he thought. Being back in the cell meant he could sleep, and be left alone with the semblance of privacy (although he knew his every move was monitored). Pity they were serious about not caring about his mental health at all - the boredom was enough to send him crazy, let alone the repeated torture of enduring the diseases they inflicted on him. He wished he knew the names of them - it annoyed him to have to call the worst he'd endured, 'one that turned his hands black and made him spew green gunk', instead of a snappy little name like 'anthrax' or 'cholera'. Oh well, it was the least of his worries. He wished they would let him read, but repeated requests had been ignored, as was everything else he said other than answers to medical questions.

The downside of being left in the cell was that he had entirely too much time to brood, something he rarely indulged in and thought of as the Highlander's speciality. He in fact spent a lot of time thinking about MacLeod, wondering what he was doing, wondering if he had missed him - wondering if the Scot ever gave him five minutes thought. He'd fallen in lust a long time ago, the day he met Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, in fact, something he knew he had in common with a hell of a lot of ordinary mortals, and not a few Immortals. It wasn't something he lost sleep over, unless you counted the obligatory masturbatory fantasies (now that was something he missed, being the only person with permission to touch his nether regions - gods, he hated the touch of White coat's clammy fingers). He'd always fallen for people easily, swayed by a pretty face or dark eyes. When Alexa came along, the feeling was so different, so overwhelming, he had no difficulty in identifying it as true love - unfortunately, it meant true grief as well. Mac had been a good friend to him then. More than a good friend. Which was why, one day, when Methos suddenly looked at himself in the mirror and said 'I am in love with Duncan MacLeod', he had surprised the hell out of himself. It had crept up on him, and he wasn't used to his psyche tricking him like that. Didn't care for it, but there wasn't much he could do about it, except bury his feelings down deep, and bask in the generous friendship of the dark haired Scot.

Other people could have a say in things, though, and the arrival of Cassandra had cut the thread of their friendship as finally as a flame through spider silk. Or so it had seemed - after MacLeod had confronted him outside his apartment, Methos thought for certain things were over. They were 'through', Mac had said, in that rather inappropriate phrase. And yet, the Highlander was still pleading with him to leave Kronos when they met in the church in Bordeaux - for all his words, Duncan had not completely abandoned Methos to his fate. Then there was that fatal clash in the submarine base, and the strangely protective manner in which Mac had seen to him afterwards. Methos couldn't make any sense of it - not according to Macleod's peculiar sense of honour and morality, with which Methos had become painfully acquainted.

He missed Mac. He could talk to the Highlander about anything, even if MacLeod tended to make fun of his historical reminiscences. He missed Joe too, a surprising amount, and he realised that the inevitable death of the Watcher would hurt nearly as much as the death of Alexa - or Silas (something he would never tell Dawson). He missed Amanda too, the little vixen. But fuck, he was so bored and lonely that he was beginning to get nostalgic over Richie Ryan.

He had absolutely no idea how long he had been in this airless, windowless hell. He had long lost track of how many meals he had, and it was clear they were completely ignoring any circadian rhythms or cycles. He could have been held as long as a year, for as little as a month. They gave him enough food to maintain something like low normal body weight, although he had lost all fitness and condition. Physically, he was much better off than he had been in that fucking oubliette in Paris in the fourteenth century. Mentally... he was beginning to think he was actually going insane. At least he hoped he was. He really didn't want to think that Kronos was sitting on the end of his bed most nights, cleaning his fingernails with a dagger and grinning. Or that Caspian was licking his toes and muttering. He was somewhat bothered by that. It seemed a bit too ... well, real. He could even _smell_ Caspian.

His captors hadn't, so far as he knew, worked out that he wasn't the only Immortal around. The thought had either not occurred to them, or they thought he wouldn't know. At least that meant his friends were safe for now. The Immortals ones, anyway. The mortals he wouldn't vouch for if some of the lovely little tricks his lab-coated tormentors had created, ever got released into an unsuspecting world.

He really hated the way Kronos was looking at him.

 

* * *

It took two painful, worrying weeks before Carson made contact again with MacLeod, telling him to meet him in Switzerland again. Amanda had already returned, and pledged herself immediately to helping retrieve the old man. She insisted on going to Geneva with MacLeod, for which he was grateful. This time, Carson met them in their hotel room, and it was obvious he didn't want to be seen talking to them. Amanda kissed Carson on the lips. "Joey, I hope you've got good news for us."

Carson sat down. "Mandy, my love, I would do anything to make that true, but unfortunately, it's not. What I tell you now could get me shot and buried in a building site, okay? Your friend's on Corsica."

Mac felt hope bloom in him like fireworks. "Are you sure? He's alive?"

"As sure anyone can be, and I think he's still alive. He was four days ago."

"How do you know?" Carson held up his hand to ward off further questions from the Highlander.

"I hacked into BioKnight's server, and found that there are reports going back to the day after you said Pierson was snatched. They aren't referring to him by name, but there's a bunch of data they've been collecting, and it seems they have the Chinese interested in it."

"But this is great news, honey," Amanda said. "I don't know why you're so gloomy - we know where he is, and we just go get him."

Carson smiled grimly at her naïveté. "I wish it was that simple. For a start, the facility where he's being held is the top ranking lab in BioKnight's stable. I designed security for it as part of a team years back and I've been able to find out it's been upgraded since then. And for second - I think Pierson's going to be sent to the Chinese mainland next week. He's been sold, or so the reports seem to indicate. Apparently there was some debate back and forth as to whether it was better to use him as a test subject and sell the results, or sell him. It looks as if it's been more profitable to get rid of him. The last report I saw said he was being put through a final battery of tests."

"Have you got a date?"

Carson nodded. "The fifteenth. Don't know the time, though."

"By air?"

"Yes, I'd have thought so. There's an airfield. The roads are public and anyway, it's easier to get an unwilling passenger out by air - that's how they bring in some of the great apes they use."

"Then we can pick him up at the handover."

"We need to get moving, Duncan," Amanda said. "We'll have to be in position."

"You," Mac said to Carson," need to give us all the information you have. Amanda, you start getting the equipment we'll need. I'm going to fly Joe in - he can be our driver."

Carson stood and pulled a wallet from his briefcase. "This is everything I have - the plans as I knew them, the systems, and maps. They're out of date, but they're the best I can do."

"Can you monitor the reports? Let us know if plans change."

"I can try. Give me a secure way of contacting you." Mac scribbled down email and phone details which Carson carefully stowed in a breast pocket. "You do realise that the security there means not even a mosquito can get within half a mile of this place without being recorded, don't you?"

Amanda caressed his cheek. "Oh, that's what they said about the Louvre, Joey. Have a little faith. Remember the Titanic - there is no such thing as a perfect system."

"Yeah, well remember that proving that meant a lot of dead people too. Better dead than in these guys' hands, honest. It's the side of BioKnight that makes them the most money, but the one they will do almost anything to keep hidden."

Mac shook his hand gratefully. "I owe you, Carson."

"Remember that when the Gathering arrives, won't you, MacLeod?" he joked. "You two be careful. I can't say I'm happy about this, but I guess between the two of you, you're smart enough to know what you're doing."

 

* * *

Even though he knew what his girlfriend did for a living, Mac was still amazed at the way she coolly analysed the plans Carson had given them, and described how she suspected the security had been upgraded. "The landing strip is their weakness, Duncan. They'll be focussing on the plane arriving, and not on a second attack. We should stake that out. You and I can be lovebirds hiking in the area - see these mountains here? If we can get Methos away from the guards, Joe should be able to get a helicopter to land on the airstrip and pick us up."

"Like that prison break out in Holland?" Mac said.

"Oh, that was just one of many, Duncan. Now I have to make some calls, and you better book us on a flight to Marseille - get Joe to meet us there. How's your wallet, honey? We need a helicopter - it'll be the quickest way to get into the region and the only safe way out."

"Whatever it costs, Amanda." He grinned suddenly. "I can always tap Methos for it when we get him out."

"That's the spirit. Now get on the phone."

Joe agreed to fly to Marseille immediately, and he said he knew a pilot, a former Watcher, they could use - a stroke of luck really, since it would avoid some of the more awkward questions about what might unfold in Corsica. "We can't let the Chinese get hold of Methos, or any Immortal, Mac - if they even get a hint that Methos isn't the only one, you guys will be hunted in every corner of the globe."

"Gee, Dawson, tell me some good news, will you? I need maps of that area, and any information you can get."

"How do you plan to get close?"

"Amanda and I are going to pretend to be interested in studying the birdlife of the maquis. She's arranging some portable heat as we speak. Joe, you'll need to fly in fast and low, pick us up and get us the hell out - you think your guy's up to it?"

"He was in 'Nam, Mac. I trusted him with my life then, I'd do it again in a second."

"Good enough, Joe. You arrange for him to be at the Hilton in Marseille in two days' time. We'll meet you there. Tell him to arrange a helicopter to be on standby in Bastia."

"Charge it to you?"

"Of course. Hurry, Joe."

MacLeod hung up and found Amanda had set up a couple of rather discreet meetings in Geneva, and another in Marseille, to which only his credit card and Swiss Bank account number were invited - not him. Fine, he thought, he would rather not know just how Amanda was going to arrange mortar launchers and laser sighted guns at short notice, and delivered to Corsica. "Duncan," she warned, "it's going to be hot for Methos for a while after we pull him out. The Chinese will be pissed."

"To say the least. We'll need a new passport and identity so we can get him out of France - can you arrange that?"

"Honey, there's nothing an unlimited cash flow can't arrange," she grinned.

"Especially when it's not your unlimited cash flow, right?"

"Got it. Bye, sweetie, I have to see a man about a thing."

Mac spent the time he had to wait for her to return to surf the Net for information about the region of Corsica they were going to, and its bird life, so should he be stopped, he could talk knowledgeably about the topic. He also spent an hour refining his thoughts about their plan. It was highly risky - they were going to launch a two-person attack on the airstrip and in the confusion, they hoped to pick up Methos and get out of there. If either he or Amanda were captured, and their Immortality discovered as it almost certainly would be, that would blow the whole secret wide open, and to the very people who could be relied upon to do the worst possible things with the information. Bu they had no choice - they couldn't ask mortals to take the risk, even if there were any they could trust.

He slipped out and bought a small wardrobe of clothes for Methos - their best bet was to get him out of France and preferably to the other side of the world until things cooled down. He could hear the old man saying that Bora Bora would be good at this time of year, but Mac personally favoured Australia - low immortal population, and they could hide in one of a thousand out of the way places. He realised that he was thinking of Methos and him being together during this period, and although the thought surprised him, it did not displease him. He and the old man had a lot to talk about.

Amanda looked pleased with herself when she got back but wouldn't tell Mac what she had arranged. They would fly to Marseille the following day.

 

* * *

Joe was waiting for them at the Hilton - his friend, Peter Northey, would join them the following day. Amanda left for another of her mysterious meetings, and Mac filled Joe in on what they planned. "Christ, Mac - if I've ever seen a riskier plan, I don't know where."

"I'll admit it's shaky, Joe, but what else can we do? Once Methos get into the hands of the Chinese, we'll lose him forever. They think long-term, you know." Joe grimaced. "Now, Peter - he can get the helicopter in Bastia?"

"Yep. We'll keep it on standby. The lab's thirty minutes from the helipad - if you can give us a heads up that far in advance, we can come get you." Thirty minutes, Mac thought. A long time but there was no choice. "To be honest, Mac, I'm more worried about how you and Amanda plan to get through the defences, and how you plan to take on an armed facility."

"She says she's spotted their weakness - the airfield. We'll use the time before the pick up to survey the defences The area about the lab is a public reserve, so they can't object to us hiking within half mile of the perimeter. We just have to get through that when we spot the Chinese plane."

"You're assuming the pickup's by plane?"

"Joey thinks so. If it's by road, then that's even better. We'll keep an eye on both - but I'm betting aircraft, Joe."

Amanda came back looking pleased with herself an hour later. "I've arranged our 'equipment' to be collected in Bastia - and no, Duncan, the less you know the better, okay, honey? Now we need some suitable clothes, packs and binoculars. Hand over the credit card." With a long suffering sigh, Mac did just that. "Don't pout, Duncan, you know it's in a good cause."

"It always is, Amanda." She kissed him and went out.

"Methos is going to owe you big time, Mac."

"No more than I owe him, Joe. No more than I owe him."

Three days later he and Amanda were camping in the hills overlooking the discreet facility in Corsica. Carson had confirmed the handover date, so all they had to do was watch for movement. They had a good view of the road and the small airfield - unfortunately the long range view of incoming planes was somewhat obscured. Mac thought they would have five to six minutes warning at most before the plane landed. Well, he thought grimly, they would have to just delay things.

Their arrival had not gone unnoticed. A couple of clean looking, muscle bound young men had 'happened' across them and been very inquisitive. Fortunately, Mac was doing his best 'dumb professor' shtick, and the guys were too busy ogling Amanda's long legs hanging out of impossibly skimpy shorts to really listen to his deliberately dry dissertation on the avian fauna of Corsica. They left convinced, so Mac was sure, that Amanda was much too good for her boring companion who was completely harmless. The weaponry they had buried in the brush remained undetected.

 

* * *

Methos had gotten used to the dreary routine, and resented it most bitterly when his captors decided to alter it. They took him to the mirror walled room they used from time to time, and tied him to a chair before firing a round of bullets into his chest. He'd barely revived before his femoral artery was laid open to allow him to bleed to death. After his fourth death in as many hours, he realised that he was once again on display. Not that the knowledge did him any good - but it would something he could talk to Kronos about when it was all over. The Horseman would surely have some insights about his experience, he always did. "You're a valuable commodity," Kronos would tell him. "They're looking after you in a funny sort of way, don't you realise?"

"I'm just a slave," Methos would retort.

Kronos would beam at him. " _Exactly_ , brother. Now you understand."

They dragged him out to be washed off and then returned to be strapped down to the hated gurney, leads glued all over him. He figured that the virus he would be given would be one of their more spectacular revolting ones, and they did not disappoint. There was a clock in the little room and he knew that he had taken much too long to revive this time, but they didn't seem at all put out as he was disinfected, washed and carried back to his cot. "Suppose as long as I come back eventually, they don't much care how long."

"Mortals, eh?" Kronos smiled. "Can't live with 'em, can't live with 'em. Cheer up brother - I suspect you'll be on the move soon."

Methos suspected the same thing as the tests intensified, as if his captors were in a rush. He was allowed a few hours between injections, and he was often too tired to eat, not that they cared. This went on for some little while until one 'morning' (he had no idea what time it was) he was showered off and fed but not made to lie down again. He was dressed in hospital greens as usual, but left shackled in a chair, watched by a guard. 'Today,' he thought. He didn't know whether to be pleased or not - he doubted it would lead to an improvement in conditions, but perhaps a change was as good as a rest, he giggled to himself. The guard looked at him impassively - he supposed they'd got used to him babbling away to thin air over the past weeks. After what seemed like an hour, more guards came and he was lifted to his feet, a hood put over his head, and he was dragged along seemingly endless corridors.

 

* * *

Amanda pointed. "Duncan, it's coming in."

Mac pressed the dial on his mobile and spoke the single word. "Go!" He heard Joe shout acknowledgement but he and Amanda were already on their feet, grabbing the packs and running for the airfield. They reached the point they had planned just as the plane landed. Amanda pulled out the portable mortar launcher and took   
careful aim. "Wait, Amanda - wait until you see Methos. I'm going to get closer." He moved down the hill, pulling out the Uzi. The jet's passengers emerged, and Mac saw they were indeed Chinese. The four men from the plane waited on the tarmac, and shortly after a small group of people, two suits and four guards came out dragging a man with a hood over his face. It had to be Methos. Amanda had seen him too and her first shot was already speeding overhead as Mac began to fire at the group. His plan was shoot everyone on the tarmac and extract Methos, alive or dead from the melee. The mortar struck the jet which erupted in flame. Mac's shooting and the explosion had been effective - no one was left standing. He cut the perimeter fence and ran across the airfield, firing in a spray pattern as he went. He heard gun fire behind him, and knew Amanda was close on his heels. "Mac, the tower!" she shouted. He sent a burst of bullets towards the control tower then checked his watch. Fourteen minutes - they had to hold off the defence for sixteen more minutes.

He got to the group of prone bodies and found Methos buried underneath two other wounded men. The Ancient was quite dead - Mac hauled him out and clear of the burning plane. Amanda joined them - they were exposed but they were holding their own - it seemed none of the remaining guards was eager to share their colleagues' fate. "Come on, come on," Mac muttered and then heard the blessed thwack, thwack, thwack of a helicopter coming their way. The two of them dragged Methos' body towards the landing site.

 

* * *

"Okay, Pete, get us the hell out of here!" Joe shouted, but the pilot was already speeding away, up and past the smoking airfield. Beside MacLeod, Methos' body was sprawled on the narrow seat. Amanda was already shedding her pack and extracting a knife to cut away the hood. The face of the Ancient looked reassuringly normal under the pallor of death. Thin, but they had expected that. No outward sign of his ordeal. The noise of the chopper made it impossible to talk. Mac pointed at the shackles and Amanda got out an intricate set of lock picks. She set to work, and finally Methos was free. Mac held his corpse upright until he felt the surge of the Quickening, followed shortly by Methos' first breath. He coughed and grimaced over the pain of revival, and then looked around. He smiled as he saw Mac, and Amanda gave him a hug which he returned.

"Landing soon - talk then," Mac shouted. Methos nodded. He looked down with distaste at his shirt, but whether it was the blood or the clothing itself, he wasn't sure, and Macleod was now glad he had made the effort to pick up some decent, even luxurious clothes for the old man in Marseille. Mac had been imprisoned too often before himself not to know that the simple pleasures of good clothes and adequate food were not simple at all.

They landed in twenty minutes beside the road, and the three Immortals piled out. Joe and Peter would return the helicopter to Bastia, and fly back to Paris separately. Amanda, Mac and Methos were to drive sedately to the airport, and catch a flight to Italy. They hoped this would throw their pursuers off the scent - Joe was a past master at eluding bad guys and dodging Immortals, so Mac wasn't worried about him. As the helicopter flew off, he was more worried about Methos, who, he saw, was still very pale. "Are you okay?" he asked with concern.

"I will be, thanks to you guys. Did I ever tell you I  loved you?"

Amanda kissed him, and Mac wished he could allow himself the same pleasure, as Methos' hazel eyes shone with joy. He tore the cheap hospital garb off, and they stuffed it in a bag to be disposed of discreetly. He changed into a set of Mac's hiking gear so that the three of them looked like a matched set. He swayed a little as he bent over to do up his sandals. "Take it easy, Methos," Mac said, holding his arm.

"Just dizzy, Mac. Have you got any water?" Amanda handed over the remains of their camping supplies, and he gulped the warm liquid greedily. He sat in the back seat picked at their energy bars as Mac drove them to Bastia. By the time they arrived in the town, it was noon, and Methos was dozing. He roused himself. "What's the plan, boys and girls?"

"Amanda's got you a new identity - Pierson's too hot, they'll be looking for you. There are a couple of options - we're flying to Rome. From there you can get an Al Italia flight to Sydney, or you can fly with me to Seacouver and we can hide on the island for a few weeks."

"The island sounds good, Mac. I don't think I want a long haul flight on my own at the moment, sorry to sound pathetic."

"Methos, honey, you're not pathetic," Amanda said firmly. "Let Duncan fatten you up and take care of you. If you like, I'll 'disappear' Adam Pierson back in Paris for you."

"Mandy, my darling, that's kind. Are you sure you can spare MacLeod?"

Mac saw Amanda roll her eyes. "Yes, I can spare him. We're not joined at the hip. Besides, Mac's known to be a friend of Pierson's. It's a good idea for him to disappear too, I think, for a while."

"Joe?" Methos said suddenly. "Mac, they'll come after Joe."

"He's expecting that, Methos," Mac said reassuringly. "Amanda will look after him, and so will the Watchers."

"They know about this?"

"We thought it was best if Joe told them, yeah - we kept your name out of it though. BioKnight is a threat to all Immortals."

"BioKnight?"

"The bastards who had you."

"Oh." Methos went quiet then.

Mac drove to the airport and handed the car back. It was a short flight to Rome, but Mac noticed the tension in the old man as the steward did the seat belt up. He surreptitiously squeezed Methos' hand and the Ancient looked at him in surprise. "It's okay, Methos. You're safe, and with friends. The first few days are the hardest," he said quietly. Methos' eyes widened even more, then narrowed as he realised Mac had a very good idea of what he had been through.

"How long was I gone?"

"Nearly two months. Too long."

"Felt longer," Methos said briefly, then pulled his hand away. He asked the steward for a Scotch and stayed quiet for the rest of the flight.

At Fiumicino Airport, Amanda booked a flight to Madrid. She kissed Methos again in farewell. "You had us worried, honey. Don't do that again."

"Yes, ma'am," Methos said, grinning. He kept the smile on his face until Amanda was out of sight, then he turned thoughtful. "I could do with a shower and changing into something more respectable."

"We both could. Come on, we've got three hours to kill."

Rome's international airport was not a patch on others of Mac's acquaintance, but after a week's camping, the hot water was blissful. He watched as Methos claimed back the privacy that had clearly been taken from him for two months, and noted that the weight loss was not as severe as he had first thought. He seemed more out of condition than anything else, and Mac guessed he had not had much chance to exercise. He certainly wasn't going to press him for details until Methos wanted to talk.

Methos came out of the cubicle, doing up the silk shirt. "Nice shirt, Mac - yours?"

"No, yours. A gift," and was delighted at the look of startled pleasure in Methos' eyes. "Now, let's get something to eat."

"I'm not hungry, Mac. I wish I'd thought to get my hair cut."

"You look fine, Methos. Completely normal."

"I don't feel it," Methos said bitterly.

"Come have something to eat, or a glass of wine. Amanda's right - you do need fattening up."

Methos let himself be persuaded, and once a plate of pasta was put in front of him, with a glass of Chianti, he ate readily enough. "Trying to get used to three squares a day again," he said.

"Bad?" Mac asked gently, not wanting to probe.

"Bad enough. Mac, that facility should be burned to the ground. The records ...."

"I agree. Um, Joe and Peter are taking care of it." Methos looked at him in astonishment. "They were going to fly back over and, uh, you know...."

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, you never cease to amaze me," Methos said in a tone matched his words. They finished the simple meal, and Methos pushed his plate away.

"How are you doing?"

"Better. You were right, I needed that." He lifted his glass. "And this."

"Are you going to be all right for the flight? If you want to delay, we could spend a night in the hotel, or if you're worried, I'm sure I could arrange for a sedative prescription ..."

"No more drugs, Mac," Methos said fiercely, and then apologised. "I'm sorry. I'll be fine. I've just had enough crap pushed into my veins and into my body and I'd really like a chance to feel just how I'm meant to for a change."

"But you don't like seat belts."

"Don't care for flying much, never did, and yeah, restraints, being told what to do ... you know, Mac," and MacLeod nodded in understanding. "Can I hold your hand if things get hairy?" Methos asked shyly, then looked down as if he had shamed himself.

Mac reached over and took the long fingers in his own. "Any time, old man. You hold any part of my anatomy that makes you feel good," and the smile his deliberate double-entendre raised was a thing of joy forever.

Methos may not have wanted drugs, but he wasn't averse to letting some good Italian wine work its magic on him. They stayed in the restaurant until it was time to board, and Mac was pleased to see the tension had eased considerably. It was a long flight from Rome to New York, and if Methos could sleep, all the better. Mac had booked first class seats, naturally, and Methos spread out as soon as they were airborne and the seat belt light was off. Mac thought he would sleep, but in fact all the old man wanted to do was read newspapers to catch up on world events, and then watch the frankly crappy selection of films on offer. He seemed disinclined to talk, and since he seemed to be doing all right, Mac permitted himself to doze.

A mistake, as it turned out. He woke to the sound of a stewardess calling 'Mr Franklin's' name in concern, and shaking Methos' shoulder. Methos was whimpering. The woman looked to Mac for help. "Leave it, I'll handle it. He's a bad flier," he told her and she nodded in sympathy. He waited until she left, then shook Methos harder. "Wake up, Methos. It's a dream." Methos turned his face to Mac's voice, his eyes still squeezed closed, a look of terror on his face. "Wake up, old man." Suddenly the hazel eyes snapped open. "You're safe, Methos. You're on a plane going to Seacouver. It's okay."

Methos looked around him, swallowed and gave Mac a look of pure embarrassment. "Oh. Bugger. Maybe I should have had the Valium, like you said."

"You're fine," Mac repeated, stroking the other man's hand. He caught the eye of the watchful stewardess and when she came over, asked her for a whiskey each. He waited until Methos had knocked the whole thing back, and then shoved his own drink over.

"I'll be tired and emotional as a newt," Methos protested, but Mac insisted. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Enough of the 'sorry's', okay? We both know why, and I think you're doing fine."

Methos rubbed a shaky hand over his face. "I'll be back in a sec," he said, and went to the bathroom. He was gone long enough for Mac to be concerned, but at last he returned, looking pale around the gills.

"Feeling sick?" Mac asked. Methos nodded. "What can I do to help?"

"Hold my hand," Methos said without hesitation. "And talk to me, Mac. No one would talk to me." Mac was horrified to see Methos' eyes begin to glisten.

"You're fine, Methos. You're safe. You know, I plan to work that skinny bum of yours off on the island?" He chatted lightly about the chores that awaited them, about what the weather would be like at that time of year, how they might get a few weeks swimming in, until he saw the grim set of Methos' mouth relax, and more colour come back into the thin face. The threatened tears did not come, and Methos began to smile. It was time for a meal, and the old man took refuge in grumbling about the food, which was in fact excellent, but Mac played the game.

As the attendant took their trays away, Methos asked for coffee, and at Mac's look, he shook his head. "I don't think I want to sleep any more. You go ahead."

"No, I'm okay. It's only ten hours, and I've been deprived of your esteemed company for long enough." Another startled look, which reminded Mac that before the whole business of the fight with Kronos, and Methos' abduction, they had been, officially, no longer friends. Mac had almost forgotten the fight outside Methos' apartment. "You don't still have a place in Seacouver, do you?"

"No, I gave it up when ... uh," he stumbled over his words,"... Mac, listen, about Kronos...."

"No, not here, not now, Methos. We need to talk, but I think we need to do that when we can swing our arms around properly." Methos smiled at the joke.

"Will we be staying at the loft first?"

"Unless you object, yes. I need to make some calls, get supplies delivered and stuff like that - collect clothes for you and me. We'll head up the day after tomorrow - or tomorrow, " he amended, looking at his watch.

"It'll be good to be master of my own destiny again," Methos admitted.

"We have to be careful," Mac warned.

"You're telling _me_ to be careful?" Methos asked with an arch of one graceful eyebrow. Mac just grinned.

 

* * *

The rest of the flight was incident free. Mac didn't sleep, as promised, but Methos did doze, despite himself, holding on to Mac's hand in a child-like and unguarded way. The old man didn't appear to be dreaming, for which Mac was grateful. He wasn't fool enough to think that Methos was going to come out of what had happened without scars, but he hoped they would have privacy for the healing process. God help us, Mac thought, if the Chinese come looking for us.

The flight arrival was delayed by over an hour because of problems on the ground, and Mac was jet-lagged and tired by the time they got the limo to LaGuardia and boarded the connecting flight to Seacouver. Methos looked a little better than he did, and was cheerful and alert, much better than Mac had expected. The loft smelled stale - MacLeod and Cassandra had gone to Paris in a rush, and so Mac hadn't mothballed it as carefully as usual. He apologised for the state of the place, but Methos waved him off. "Christ, Mac - you just hauled my arse out of hell on earth. Please don't start telling me I should care about the state of your fridge."

Mac nodded, then yawned hugely. "Damn - there's things I want to do before we go up to the island but all I want to do is sleep."

"Can I help? I'm not tired, I could go out...."

"No way, old man, I don't care how wired you are. You've only had a couple of hours more sleep than me, you're out of shape and in no position to defend yourself. Immortals aren't the only threat, remember?"

"All right, mother. But I can make the calls."

Mac looked at Methos' eager face and thought that letting him organise things would be good for him. He tossed him his telephone book. "Call Charlie Price and tell him I need the usual, and the boat. Add anything to the order that you want - food, beer, whatever. Then if you want, you can pack - you know where the clothes are, make sure you get shoes for yourself too. Pick yourself a sword from the collection. Make yourself at home, Methos."

"Mi casa ...?" Methos asked with a grin

"Yeah, and all that. I'm for bed. See you later."

He was asleep almost before he was completely horizontal, and he slept through until two o'clock - five hours solid. Nothing in particular woke him, but he was reassured by the buzz he felt. Lifting his head, he saw Methos was sprawled on the sofa, asleep, one of Mac's books on his chest. He'd changed into a pair of sweats, and looked rumpled enough to have been asleep for some time. Mac padded over to the kitchen quietly, feeling hungry and wondering if there was any food in the loft at all. There was instant coffee, which would have to do - he'd order takeout once Methos woke up. He set the kettle to boil and reached for the jar of granules. Still dozy, he knocked it flying and it hit a saucepan which fell over with a loud clang. Guiltily, he looked at the sofa to see if he had disturbed the sleeping man and then ran over to pick Methos up off the floor, where he had fallen in terror, wide-eyed and clutching at Mac in fear. "God, Methos, I'm sorry. Wake up, you're okay." He could see the pulse pumping in Methos' neck, and he was breathing fast - Mac wasn't sure Methos even knew he was there. "Methos, it's okay." The death grip on his arm loosened, and the staring eyes became more sentient looking.

"Oh. Mac. I thought ... gods ...." He went deathly pale and scrambled up, running to the bathroom. Just great, MacLeod, he told himself angrily. You've frightened him sick. Unsure what to do, he went and listened at the half closed door. Hearing no sounds of vomiting, he pushed the door open a little, and saw Methos crouching in the corner of the bathroom, huddled in a ball, shivering, fear sweat pouring down a ghostly pale face.

"Damn," Mac said softly, coming in and kneeling before his friend. "Methos? It's okay, you're safe."

Methos looked at him with wet eyes. "M ... Mac?"

"I'm here, Methos," he said gently.

"M...Mac .... help me," Methos whispered, and now it wasn't just sweat running down his face. Mac came closer, and as he wasn't rebuffed, he reached out his arms. Methos launched himself into them, clutching Mac as if his life depended on it. Mac held him tight, trying to ease the violent tremors with the strength of his embrace. He stroked the messy hair, and kept murmuring words of comfort. It took an age for Methos to calm down and he seemed reluctant to release his grip on Mac. Mac was content to sit there as long as it took, even though his knees were beginning to creak.

"Are you feeling any better?" Mac asked finally

"Yeah," Methos said in a muffled voice. He pushed himself away from Mac's hold. "What a display."

"Want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay." Mac didn't move.

"Duncan?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"Any time, Methos. I'm sorry for frightening you." Mac levered himself up and pulled Methos after him. "This is going to happen - it's nothing to be worried about."

Methos wrapped his arms around himself. "No offence, MacLeod, but revealing my weaknesses to anyone, let alone another Immortal, is not something I'm going to be ever happy about."

"No offence taken, Methos. But you're one up on me, remember? You've seen me at my worst. What's going on with you couldn't be as bad as that. If it's any consolation, I have a terrible memory. I'm sure I would forget to tell anyone about seeing you a little less than perfect." He smiled, and Methos gave him an uncertain grin. He touched a tear stained cheek. "Why don't you have a shower? I'll order some food - got a preference?"

"You choose," Methos said, and made it clear he wanted some privacy, which Mac let him have.

 

* * *

As soon as the bathroom door closed, Methos began to shake again. Fuck it, get a grip, you old fool, he told himself angrily. He couldn't stop this stupid shaking. Shower, he thought. He stripped off the old sweats he'd pinched from MacLeod and set the water running at nearly scalding temperature. He stepped under the spray and let it pound him, trying to wash the terror away. Whatever it was Mac had done had taken him back immediately to the cell, hearing the door clang, waiting for rough hands to drag him up, either for impersonal and humiliating bathing, or to be injected with more filth. It wasn't helping he was jet-lagged and tired, and needing MacLeod too much for safety. Now he wished he'd taken the option of flying to Australia, but he still shrank from the idea of being alone. Amanda's company would be nice now - he had nothing like the emotional entanglement with her that he had with MacLeod. Now he was going to be alone on an island with the untouchable Scot, and he wasn't even sure MacLeod liked him any more. The Highlander was just doing his protective thing, looking after a wounded bird - once Methos was back on his feet, he was sure MacLeod would then get around to remembering the lies and bitterness over Kronos.

I need to get out of here, he told himself, and then immediately realised he had very few options. His 'Adam Pierson' persona was history, and although he had half a dozen he could pick up at short notice, the wherewithal lay in Paris. He was in Mac's hands for the moment, and he had no strength to resist the force of destiny that was Duncan MacLeod. No, all he had to do was get his act together ASAP, and then get the hell out of town and away from the temptation Mac presented by simply breathing.

A knock on the door. "Methos?"

"Coming, Mac." He turned the water off, and towelled himself off, revelling a little in the pleasure of being able to wash himself, piss when he wanted. He shivered again. Concentrate, old man, he told himself severely. Seacouver. Freedom. Duncan. Good things.

He sauntered out, doing his best to look calm and collected. Mac smiled, but didn't ask how he was. Methos made a mental note to ask MacLeod one day how he had come to be so intimately acquainted with the effects of imprisonment and torture. "So what did you choose?"

"Chinese - and beer."

"Good man. I wasn't sure what time to tell Charlie we'd be arriving, but he'd expecting us around noon."

"That's about right. Time for a leisurely breakfast, and an easy drive up." Mac nodded at the cases lined up. "You found everything?"

"Yes, and I took the liberty of packing some dry goods you had - they won't keep much longer."

The food arrived and they ate in companionable silence. Methos still had to fight his stomach's hesitation over more food in a day than he was used to, but the meal was good, and a relief from the monotony of what his captors had offered. Just as they were finishing up, the phone rang. It was Joe, and from Mac's side of the conversation, Methos was able to deduce that their mortal friend was safe and well, and that the dropping of the explosives upon the BioKnight facility had gone as planned. "I never asked," Methos said as Mac hung up. "Just who the hell are BioKnight, and what were they doing with me?"

Mac explained what Joey Carson had learned, and Methos listened, not terribly surprised by anything he learned. "That explains the mad rush, I suppose." Mac looked at him quizzically. "They were testing biotoxins and biological warfare agents on me. Scientifically, it was a nonsense, but I guess they couldn't resist having a real live human test subject to play with before they handed me over. They were shoving bugs into me almost faster than I could heal."

"I don't suppose that they were just giving you the flu," Mac said sympathetically.

"No, it made the stuff Kronos was planning to use look like the common cold. I suppose there was a kind of justice in that, after all."

"Methos...."

"It's okay, Mac. I know one didn't really have anything to do with the other." He suddenly remembered. "Mac - the reservoir...!"

"Calm down, old man. We forgot it too, in worrying about you, but I found the bomb and disabled it."

Methos relaxed. "Thank Christ for that. I'd never have forgiven myself if that had gone off."

"And yet you planned it all." Mac's voice wasn't accusatory, but Methos knew this fight was well past due. He stood up, and swung his arms around.

"Okay, plenty of room. We're going to do this now?"

"We don't have to, Methos." Mac hadn't moved from the table, and was still playing with his chopsticks.

"Yes, we have to, MacLeod. If you're planning to play keeper over me for a while, it's best you know who and what you're protecting. Yes, I planned it."

"And if I hadn't got to the bomb in the fountain in time?"

"People would have died. It's what Kronos wanted - no, that's not the complete truth. Kronos wanted to let the virus out on an enormous scale from the beginning. I persuaded him to start small and build." Still no censure in Mac's brown eyes. "MacLeod, are you listening? I admit it, I set the bomb, I would have helped him go through with it."

"I hear you, old man. I understand. But you also did everything you could to stop it. You saved Cassandra's life. You tried to keep me out of Kronos' way. These are not the acts of a bad man, an evil person."

Methos didn't want Mac to get a false impression of his goodness, any more than he wanted him to believe an exaggerated picture of his misdeeds. "MacLeod, you don't understand ...."

Mac stood up and now there was anger in his eyes. "What are you doing, Methos? Same as you did outside your flat that night? Trying to make me think the worst of you? Well, here's what I think. I think if I hadn't beaten Kronos, you would have gone with him and helped him, right?"

"Yes." Methos' mouth felt suddenly very dry.

"And you would have tried to stop the worst excesses of his plans, but if you couldn't, you would have done everything you could to survive, right?"

"Yes. Mac...."

"Shut up. I _understand_. You go with the winner, you want to live. Yes, I know." Mac came to stand in front of Methos, and it was all the old Immortal could do not to flinch. "It's what you do, Methos. It's not my way, but I'm not five thousand years old either. You did what you could, and we won. That's all that matters."

"But I am a very bad person, Mac."

Macleod actually chuckled. "And I thought I was the Catholic. You want absolution, you want forgiveness? The church is down that way, three blocks," he pointed. "You want your friend to take the stick out of his arse and learn to understand a little, you come to me."

Methos couldn't help but grin. "You've been talking to Dawson too much, Mac."

"Actually, I think that was Amanda's expression, but Joe's sentiment exactly.

"You've changed your song, you do realise," Methos said, unable to keep a touch of reproach out of his voice.

"We did a lot of talking while we were worrying ourselves to death about you." The warmth in Mac's eyes came close to undoing Methos. He could drown in those eyes, he thought. The Scot put his hand on Methos' shoulder and Methos resisted the temptation to nuzzle at it. "There's a lot to understand and accept, Methos. All I want is time, and maybe some information. I got over wanting to judge you when I realised that losing you would hurt more than I could possibly bear. Nothing is important enough to risk you over."

Methos wanted to make some sarcastic rejoinder, but instead he just stood there, open-mouthed in amazement at the blunt declaration of affection. Finally he coughed, "I, uh ... yeah, Mac, I feel the same about you."

Mac laughed again. "Yes, and you didn't take so long to say it. Now, I need a work out. Fancy some light sparring?"

 

* * *

Mac watched in carefully concealed concern as Methos stripped down to dogi pants and bare chest. He really did intend to keep things light, but the older Immortal needed to build up his fitness. He guessed, but didn't ask, that Methos had spent a lot of the previous weeks strapped down, and certainly spent no time exercising. The man was lean, as always, but the strong musculature of the chest had lost definition, and for an Immortal, relying on upper body strength and stamina, that was fatal. He led the old man through some warm ups, stretches and they went through some katas with bokken. "Ready to try with swords?"

Methos nodded. His breathing was a little fast, but nothing outrageous. He had chosen a katana - Mac had nothing like Methos' favoured broadsword in his weapons collection - but there was no indication that the weapon was too unfamiliar for him. They bowed to each other, and began. Like Methos, Mac was fighting bare-chested - it was hot, and the dojo was airless, since he couldn't be bothering opening it all up for an hour-long spar. He was amused to see an intent look come over Methos' face - the man was taking it completely seriously, at odds with his usual flippant attitude. He was concentrating on giving Methos a good work out, but not hurting him - pain was not part of the therapy he had planned - and so was taken aback when the borrowed katana in the other man's hand slashed across his chest. Not just a graze either - it laid his pectorals wide open, and hurt like hell. "Methos!" he shouted in warning, but the old man continued his attack. Alarmed, and now alerted, Mac fought back hard, and in earnest, having the greatest difficulty in holding his ground. Something was bothering him - a sense of déjà vu. It seemed to him he had fought this fight before. He needed to bring this to an end before one of them got badly hurt, or God forbid, killed. He pressed a slight advantage, and Methos tripped. "Yield!" Mac shouted, as Methos assumed the traditional posture of the vanquished, kneeling on the floor.

At Mac's shout, Methos looked up and blinked. "Oh. Yield, Mac," he said in a quiet voice. Puzzled, Mac held a hand up and Methos stood. He touched a finger to the blood on Mac's chest, and looked at it as if he had never seen the substance before. "Sorry," he said again just as quietly. "Better shower, I suppose," then turned to go up the stairs to the loft.

What the _fuck_? Mac thought - then it hit him. He _had_ fought that fight before, in an abandoned submarine base in Bordeaux. He had just fought Kronos all over again.

 

* * *

He showered downstairs, unwilling to speak to Methos until he had got his thoughts in order. If Methos had killed Kronos, what had happened would make a kind of twisted sense - but he hadn't. Mac had. Methos had killed Silas - and Mac had killed Kronos, almost at the same second. The Quickenings ... Mac shuddered, remembering the awful power of the evil energies that had swamped them, leaving both of them unable to stand, and Methos sobbing on the ground. Then Cassandra ... A bad day, and it had got worse for Methos, at least. Had sharing the Quickenings done something, had they actually swapped energies? He had never heard of such a thing, but Quickenings were the least understood of all the mysteries of Immortal existence.

Mac towelled off and went upstairs. Methos was sitting on the sofa, holding a beer, and looking shattered. He glanced up at Mac's approach. "Guess I'm more unfit than I thought."

Mac sat down across from him. "Methos, you were using Kronos' techniques. You were fighting move for move as we did in Bordeaux."

Methos' eyes narrowed but then he shrugged. "Kronos and I trained together for a thousand years, Mac - we were bound to pick up a few things from each other."

"Do you remember cutting me?"

"No, but I kind of lost it there for a while. Did I hurt you?"

"That's not ... Methos, is it possible you got some of Kronos' Quickening?" The other Immortal's face blanched and he put down his beer. "Something happened in Bordeaux - something unusual."

Methos stood up and walked to the large window. "Mac, you're making a mountain out of a molehill. I went onto autopilot, and used some moves you've seen before. Let's not complicate my fucked-upedness any more than we have to."

Methos had not turned to speak, but the line of his body spoke of his tension, and Mac decided he should drop it. "Okay. Look, I'm going to get some milk, and some stuff for supper - do you want anything?"

"A newspaper or two would be good."

 

* * *

Methos turned back to staring out of the window.

"You're getting soft, Methos. You let him win."

Methos turned to his former brother. "Will you fuck off, Kronos?"

"Now, brother, is that any way to speak to me? After how good I've been to you recently?" Methos refused to dignify the remark with an answer. "He still sulks, Caspian, have you noticed?" Kronos said to the figure in the corner.

"Yes, brother Kronos. He always was a moody bastard."

"Huh, you can talk, you psychopath," Methos said disgustedly. "Look, I don't need you around any more - and you're dead. Time to bugger off back to Hell, or wherever it is you ended up."

Kronos came and sat right next to him on the sofa, ignoring the hostile glance. "But we never left, brother. We're in here," he said, tapping Methos' skull. Methos jerked away angrily. "Don't be like that, brother. MacLeod knows. He's worked it out."

"Crap, Kronos. He knows nothing about it. Fuck it, I don't understand it, how can he? Now piss off, I'm busy."

"Busy going crazy, old man?" Kronos whispered and faded away as Methos felt the song of Macleod's presence and heard the lift gears working. He forced a smile on his face.

"Did you get anything good?" Mac tossed three heavy weekend newspapers down beside him - gods, it was Sunday and he hadn't even noticed. He spread the papers out and sighed with pleasure. "You know what would be perfect ...?"

"Coffee," Mac said, and grinned. "Coming up."

Mac seemed to have forgotten, or at least dismissed, Methos' lapse during the spar, for which the older immortal was thankful. They spent a peaceful afternoon reading the newspapers, Mac's feet propped up on the coffee table somewhat to Methos' surprise. He lay on the sofa reading the supplements, getting lost in a pleasant way in the life styles of the rich, famous and mortal. He was startled when Mac's hand shook his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

"You fell asleep, Methos. It's nearly eight. Time for supper and then bed."

"Should have just let me sleep," Methos groused, but roused himself to eat toasted cheese sandwiches and drink a huge mug of hot chocolate with whiskey in it. "Food of the gods," he groaned, feeling more full than he had for months.

"Feeling better?" Mac asked solicitously, taking his plate away.

"Much, thanks. Do you know where your spare sheets are? I couldn't find them earlier." Mac looked shifty. "Mac?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, Methos - but I thought you might like to sleep with me. In case of more nightmares," the Scot added hastily.

"Oh." Methos didn't know whether he was more surprised at the offer, or the careful concern behind it. "Um, that would be lovely, Mac. If you don't mind."

"No. Anyway, the spare sheets need washing," Mac replied with a grin. "Now, I'm just about done in, and we have an early start. I'm going to bed - you sit up if you want."

"Thanks." Methos was grateful for the chance to get into bed on his own. Sharing with another man wasn't a problem, and his libido wasn't anything to write home about just now. It just was ... awkward. Their friendship had changed once already, and now Mac was making it more intimate, giving and demanding trust. And now who's making mountains out of molehills, he chided himself.

He sat up for another hour, then admitted defeat. He stripped down to his boxers - Mac's boxers - as he'd seen Macleod do earlier, and crawled in beside the heavily breathing form. The bed was huge - more than enough room for them to sleep without touching, but he suddenly craved touch, the feel of human affection. He couldn't ask though, and didn't dare impose. He lay on his back trying to be as quiet as possible and not fidget, but Mac wasn't asleep after all - nor ignorant of the dilemma, it seemed. "Come here, Methos," he said, flinging out a brawny arm, pulling him in, and gratefully Methos cuddled in close, feeling the furnace that was Mac's body warm him to his core.

His sleep was punctuated by dreams but whenever he woke, sweat pouring down his face, he found Mac's arm around him, reassuring and guarding him. The Scot wasn't awake most of the times, but it didn't matter - the fact of the presence of another person who cared about him was enough to dispel the nightmare, and send him back to sleep. Still, he was glad when it was morning - he was little more rested than he had been when he went to bed. MacLeod, on the other hand, had slept like an innocent, so far as he could tell. How, Methos wondered, could a man live to be over four hundred, and have no nightmares?

Mac sneezed and woke himself up, his eyes opening and staring straight into Methos' own. "Sleep well?"

"Well enough," Methos lied.

"Did being here help?"

"Oh, yes," he answered, this time with heartfelt honesty. "You have no idea how alone I felt."

"I have some idea," Mac said dryly, before getting out of bed, scratching and yawning.

"Mac - I've been meaning to ask ..."

"World War Two. Germany. Just an ordinary prisoner though - they didn't know I was Immortal."

"Thank the gods," Methos said with feeling.

"What you said, and then some. Not as long as you, or as bad probably - but I know, old man. I know." Warm brown eyes gazed at him with complete sympathy and understanding, and Methos felt a sudden irrational urge to weep. He cleared his throat instead.

"It's not the worst time I've had in captivity, you know. Paris was worse."

"But it's the most recent, Methos. Don't try and pretend for me. There's no need."

"And there's no need to treat me like cut glass either, MacLeod," he snapped, pulling himself out of bed and looking for the slacks he'd worn on the plane. Mac handed him a pair of jeans instead.

"We have to use a boat - you might want to keep those pants for company." Methos took the clothing off him gracelessly, but Mac ignored his mood, dressing himself and going to put the coffee on. It was only 6.00 am but they had gone to bed very early. Methos thought it would be a week or so before his body knew which end of the day was which.

They took their time over breakfast, and Mac closed the loft down properly before they loaded his 4x4 up and drove against the tide of rush hour out of the city and up to Mac's island retreat. The idea of a safe retreat now appealed to Methos more than it had, after Mac had proved how much his presence eased the effects of Methos' captivity. It also helped that Methos' private peanut gallery took a break when the Scot was with him. It took a little getting used to, being looked after - he'd always struggled through on his own before. Not having to was both pleasant and strange. His cynical self said that Mac was just worried about a known immortal falling back into hostile and inquisitive hands, but he knew that MacLeod didn't think like that, bless his honourable soul.

He relaxed, watching civilisation disappear into woodland. The weather was warm - summer was on its way. It annoyed him that he missed most of the spring - no matter how many of the vernal seasons he had lived through, he always got a rush of renewed well-being as the trees came into leaf and the flowers began to appear. "Penny for 'em," Mac said suddenly.

"Not worth it. Just getting all Wordsworthy in my old age."

"Wandering lonely as a cloud?"

"Daffodils, actually," Methos said quellingly and Mac laughed.

"You can pick all the flowers you want on the island. Arms full of them."

"God help us. How far is it now?"

"Not long."

Not ten minutes later, they reached the turn off to the lake, and half an hour after that, they were outside Charlie Price's store. The middle-aged store owner came out and greeted Mac warmly. "Been a while, Mr MacLeod. Thought maybe you wouldn't be coming up this year."

"Just had business to take care of, Charlie. This is Edward Franklin - he's staying with me for a while."

Methos shook hands with the mortal. "We spoke on the phone."

"So we did. Well, come on in, I've got your order, and the boat's ready on the trailer."

Mac checked over the order, and added a few forgotten items. Methos amused himself by looking around the store, and then wandered outside. He heard the unmistakeable sounds of young mammals, and sure enough, there was a hutch with puppies inside for sale. He crouched down and tickled them through the chicken wire.

 

* * *

Mac finished up with Charlie, and looked around for Methos to help him load the car. There was no sign of the Ancient, but the buzz led him outside. He grinned to see Methos sitting on the ground, apparently mesmerised by three ten-week-old puppies in a cage. Methos squinted up at him at his approach. "Do you think you would let me have one?"

Mac did a double take not only at the strange request, but the stranger phrasing. 'Let him'? "Uh, do you think that's a good idea? What about when you go travelling?"

"Someone will look after it. I'd take good care of him." Mac knelt down beside Methos. He had a dreamy look on his face.

"Methos, are you all right?" He put a hand on the old man's shoulder. At his touch, Methos jerked and then looked at him as if he was only just aware of his presence.

"Ready to go?" Methos said.

"Um, yeah. You don't want a dog, then."

"Not very practical, Mac," Methos said calmly, standing up and dusting off his jeans. "Let's load up." The Ancient strode back to the store, leaving a very puzzled Highlander behind.

They towed the boat down to the lake's edge. Taking everything over needed two trips but finally supplies and men were all on the right side of the water. "Not bad," Methos said, looking at the small but tidy cabin.

"I've spent a while making improvements. All mod cons, you'll see."

The cabin had two bedrooms, a cosy living room with comfortable if somewhat old and worn sofa and armchair, a real fireplace, and a well equipped kitchen. "You approve?" Mac asked.

"As hideouts go, it'll do," Methos said, but his look was more enthusiastic. Mac switched on the fridge and the water heater. "How do you get electricity?"

"Solar panels, and there's a windmill up on the hill. There's a generator if either doesn't supply enough. Told you - all the comforts of home."

"But whose home?" Methos muttered. After they unpacked, Mac made them a simple lunch of soup and bread.

"What would you like to do? Explore?"

"That might be fun. How big is the island? Can I get lost?"

"It's big enough, but if you keep the lake shore in sight, you can't go wrong. Here, look at this map." He pulled out one he had drawn himself. "Take it with you."

"You don't want to come?" Methos asked.

"I thought you might like time to yourself, but I'll come if you like."

The old man considered, then shook his head. "No, maybe you're right."

"You'll be safe enough," Mac said seriously. "Charlie will let us know if anyone comes asking about us, and take a look at this." He opened a cabinet in the kitchen, revealing a series of LEDs on an expensive looking bit of electronics. "Movement detectors. There's a bank of three. If anyone comes down my road, I'll know - an alarm goes off. One means it's probably a deer. All three, then I can be sure it's someone coming down to the lake. Still might be fishermen, but it gives me early warning."

"And here I was thinking you were so addicted to danger that an alarm system would be anathema to you," Methos said lightly.

"When I come up here, it's because I want to be out of the Game for a while, Methos," Mac answered seriously. "And if I bring anyone, their safety is important to me." He put his hand on Methos' shoulder, and the old man smiled.

"Thanks, Mac. Well, if you don't need me, I think I will take that walk."

"I can lend you binoculars if you want."

"Some other day, Mac," Methos said, closing the door behind him.

 

* * *

Methos rather wished he had asked Mac to come with him, but he was feeling a little cramped for sure. The only problem was, he couldn't be alone even when he was on his own. "You look troubled, brother," Kronos said, stepping into line with him.

"Wouldn't you be if you were being haunted?" Methos said acidly. "Or are you just a figment of my imagination?"

"Well, brother, you always were the rational one. Perhaps you could tell me?"

"Beats me why I have to conjure you up, when there are so many nice people I could be imagining."

"But you love me best, brother."

"Fuck off, Kronos," Methos snarled.

"Tut tut, Methos - you're getting repetitive. There's someone waiting to see you up in the grove."

Methos stopped and looked at the unwanted visitor. "Perhaps I'm not feeling sociable," he said, turning back. To his surprise, Kronos put a hand on his chest to stop him. "Leave off, Kronos."

"You can't avoid it forever, Methos. You know who I'm talking about."

"Leave me alone, Kronos. Soon I'll be feeling better and you'll just be a bad memory."

"You can't get rid of your obligations so easily, brother. Remember your blood oath? Remember betraying us?" Kronos hissed. "Betraying _me_?"

"Who cares, Kronos? I'm alive, you're dead." He tried to dodge the Horseman, but Kronos staying in his face. "Get out of my way."

"Come to the grove, Methos. You really need to see who's there."

Unwillingly, Methos turned around and walked up the path to the hilltop grove which was bathed in sunshine. "There's no one here, Kronos."

"Look again, brother."

Methos turned. "Silas?" he said, wonderingly.

"Welcome back, brother," the big man said, beaming, and then he took Methos into a crushing hug. Methos found tears springing to his eyes.

"Silas .... you're here. But I killed you ..."

"Oh, what's a little swordplay between brothers, Methos? You look skinny - not feeding you, are they?"

"I'm all right. Silas - you forgive me?"

"For killing me? Of course, brother. It was a fair fight. Breaking the oath, that's another matter." His face turned grim. "You made a vow, Methos. You have to keep it."

"I'm not killing MacLeod," Methos said, backing away but then he bumped into Caspian.

"It's not like we want much, Methos," Caspian said with false innocence. "What's a four hundred year old child you've known for a couple of years, compared to us?"

"Well, for one thing, he's alive and you're not," Methos said through gritted teeth. "I should have left you to rot in that asylum, Caspian. It was the perfect place for you."

"But you didn't, did you, Methos?" Kronos said, sitting on a stump and crossing his knees. "It was you who brought us all back together. It was you who swore to kill MacLeod."

"You forced me!" Methos shouted. "I never wanted to ...."

"Come now, brother," Kronos interrupted reprovingly. "I know you've got the Scottish brat convinced your brain's addled, but you and I know better. You loved it, you loved the freedom and the power..."

"I did _not_! If I had never seen you again, I would have been perfectly content!"

"But you did. And you do. Why do you keep talking to us, Methos, if you hate us all so much? You were grateful enough for the company in that prison, weren't you? No one else to talk to, except us. We've always been there for you, Methos."

"Oh, please. Let's not rewrite history that much, Kronos."

Kronos stood, and Silas seized Methos' arm. Methos felt paralysed as his brother stood close to him, and caressed his cheek. "Now who's rewriting history, Methos? Who pulled you out of that brothel, hmmm? Who made you into a warrior feared across three continents? Who saved your life a hundred times? Who watched your back?" He gripped Methos' chin painfully. "Who, Methos?" he hissed. "You look at your memories, _brother_. Who saved you?"

"You did," Methos whispered, hating yourself.

"Who planted the bomb in the fountain?"

"I did."

"Who told us how to build maximum terror?"

"I did."

"Yes. You. And who swore the oath to kill MacLeod?"

"Let me go, Kronos," Methos pleaded. "It's all over. Go back ... go to your Valhalla or what ever you believe in. Our worlds are not one anymore."

"Wrong, brother. We are with you now. I told you. And until you kill the Highlander, we will keep reminding you of your oath. It's for your own good, Methos," Kronos said almost kindly.

"No, no, I can't. He's my friend ..."

"And we are your brothers!" Kronos roared. "Your brothers by every measure but blood!"

"You killed me, Methos," Silas said sadly. "Over that silly girl who wanted to kill you herself. How could you?"

"I'm sorry," Methos whispered. "I wished there had been another way ...."

"Too late for apologies, Methos," Kronos said. "Kill the Highlander, keep your oath. Give us peace."

"Peace?" Methos said weakly.

"Of course. Why do you think we are here?"

"You're not really here."

Kronos pulled his sword from his sheath. "Think again, Methos," he said, then stabbed Methos through the heart. Methos sagged, dying, to the ground. "We are as real as you. The question is, how real do you think you are?"

Methos had no breath to answer. He saw the other three Horsemen disappear as his vision blacked out

 

* * *

Mac felt Methos long before the other man came in the front door, and was horrified by the state he was in. Pale - no, grey faced, he thought, sweating, and breathing as if he had just run a marathon. "Bloody hell, Methos - what have you done to yourself?" He helped Methos sit on the sofa, and got him a glass of water.

"Just ... just overdid it," Methos gasped. Mac was dubious about that - the only way Methos could have got in that condition was if he had run at speed around the island, something he doubted the old man had done. Methos gulped the water greedily.

"Want something stronger?"

Methos nodded, and Mac broke out his scotch, poured a healthy slug and gave it to him. Methos sipped it and tipped his head back on the back of the sofa, closing his eyes. He looked exhausted and ill, almost as if he had taken a bad Quickening. Unconsciously, Mac's hand went to Methos' shoulder and began to knead it. "Want to talk about it?"

Methos shook his head and took another sip of whiskey. Gradually the colour came back into his face, and his breathing slowed. "I'm all right, Mac," he said, and Mac took his hand away. "Guess I need to take it more slowly."

Mac knew he wasn't getting the whole story, but thought it better not to press. Methos finished the glass of Scotch slowly, then went off to wash his face in the bathroom. Mac judged him to be recovered. "I suppose suggesting a workout is a bad idea, huh."

Methos gave him a weak smile. "Only if you believe in flogging a dead horse, Mac."

"It's too hot for that anyway. Actually, I was thinking a swim might be nice - the water is probably just about right. Interested?"

Methos considered. "All right - but I didn't bring trunks, as you know."

"Neither did I. Feeling bashful?" Mac asked, then could have bit his tongue off for his tactlessness. "I mean ..."

"It's fine, Duncan," Methos said with a trace of amusement. "Swimming costumes are a pretty recent invention, and I dare say you've seen the odd bare arse in your time."

"I'll see you down there then - take your time, old man," Mac said, not intending to be sarcastic, but Methos took offence.

"I'll give you 'old man'. Last one in, cleans the swords for a month."

Mac yelped at the threat, but Methos was already off and running. Mac pelted after him, but Methos had left a trail of discarded clothing and was diving off the jetty before Mac got to the shore. He didn't mind losing - seeing Methos recovered from his odd fit was consolation enough. Seeing the long pale body arc into the water was ... a bonus. A dark haired head emerged. "Come on, slow coach!"

"Five thousand going on five," Mac muttered, stripping himself and making a more sedate dive into the water, which was cold but not chilly. He swam over to the Ancient. "I thought you hated swimming."

"No, I said I didn't like boats. Swimming, I like. Come on." He began a lazy freestyle stroke following the shore. Mac kept up with him easily. The exercise was no doubt good for both of them, and the feeling of liberation was uplifting. Methos swam easily, and well - he had the physique for it. Mac had a lower centre of gravity, and had to work that little bit harder to keep up, but neither of them were exactly exerting themselves. After a few minutes, Methos stopped and trod water. "Do you fish here?"

"Aye - and the fishing is good, if you like that sort of thing." He hesitated. "You're feeling better."

Methos frowned. "I told you, I overdid it. It's a hot day, MacLeod."

Not that hot, Mac thought. "You may as well swim as walk here while the weather's fine. Charlie says rain's predicted for the end of the week."

"You can swim in the rain, Mac," Methos said with a grin.

"Och, but the wee drops on your noggin hurt," Mac clowned.

They swam and lazed for over an hour, and whatever strange mood had overtaken Methos earlier had completely gone as far as Mac could judge. Only when the sun dipped below the highest trees did they swim back to the jetty. Mac caught his breath as Methos climbed the ladder - there were bare arses and then there were ... God, what a bum! And that long back! He lingered in the water a little longer until his erection subsided - how childish of him, he thought. Methos would think he was incapable of controlling himself.

Methos didn't notice any of Mac's dilemma, shaking the worst of the water off and casually redressing in his clothes on the shore without towelling off, no doubt trusting to the lingering heat of the day to dry the dampness. Mac waited until Methos went inside the cabin before emerging from the water and copying Methos' actions. Holding his shoes in his hands, he went into the cabin.

"Methos!" He stood slack jawed with astonishment at the sight before him - Methos had one of the steaks he was planning for their supper in his hands and was gnawing at it. Raw. "Jesus, Methos." Mac moved carefully towards the kitchen area, unsure of what was going on.

The old man put the meat down, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "And yet you eat sushi." He calmly washed his hands and looked set to go outside again, but Mac stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Methos - we need to talk."

Mac could see Methos struggling with the urge to tell him to fuck off, but at last he shrugged. "Sorry if I offended your sensibilities, MacLeod."

"Methos, I don't give a damn about my sensibilities. But you can't tell me that you normally eat raw meat, any more than you normally want me to 'let' you buy a puppy. You're acting strange."

Methos backed away from him, and sat on the armchair. "And this surprises you, MacLeod? I thought you said you understood about being imprisoned."

"I did - I do. This is not ..."

"What, MacLeod? Normal?" Methos grated out. "Sane? Congratulations, you've just worked it out. Methos has lost his marbles, or some of them. Being tortured for two months, raped with metal rods, injected with filth, dying in fifty unbearable and disgusting ways, will do that to a person."

Methos had adopted the posture with which Mac was becoming familiar - arms wrapped around himself, a fierce look in the hazel eyes. All the relaxation he had shown in the water was gone as if it had never been, and Mac realised he had to tread carefully.

"I'm sure it will, Methos, and I'm not being critical. It's just your reactions are unexpected. I want to help, if I can."

"Channelling Sean Burns, Mac? Pity the real thing is not around any more."

Mac felt as though he'd been slapped, and he had to turn and walk out of the cabin before he shouted back at Methos, or worse. He knew the old man was feeling trapped, and attacking in any way he could, but his tongue was one of the sharpest and cruellest of any of Mac's acquaintances. The remark about the Immortal psychiatrist hurt like hell, as it was meant to. It was also accurate. The need for a doctor who understood the peculiar psyches and pressures of Immortality was never more apparent.

He heard the door open behind him, and steeled himself for more venom. Instead - "I'm sorry, Duncan. That was vile even by my standards."

He turned and looked at his friend, who did indeed look regretful. "No, it was fair comment, Methos. I wish Sean was here - he could help you."

"You help me, Mac."

"Are you sure? You were so peaceful a few minutes ago, and now .... I feel clumsy."

"You're not. Mac, can I ask you something? Do you believe in ghosts?"

Mac blinked at the non sequitur, but rallied his thoughts. "Not as such - but I believed our memories haunt us."

"What about the people you've killed?" Methos sunk down and sat cross-legged on the wooden porch, looking up at Mac.

"No - not in specific terms. I have nightmares about battles, that sort of thing." He could see that wasn't what Methos was talking about. "During the Dark Quickening," he said hesitantly, not really wanting to talk about a painful period, "I thought I saw Darius. Outside his church."

Methos smiled ruefully. "Now Darius would be a most welcome ghost."

"Who do you see?" Mac asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"Kronos," Methos said flatly. "Him, Caspian ... and Silas."

"They're dead, Methos. Really dead - they can't hurt you."

"I know, I know. Try telling them that."

The attempted joke fell flat. "Do you see them all the time?" Mac asked.

"No. Only when I'm on my own."

"They're not real. They can't hurt you," Mac said, more than slightly knocked off balance by Methos' admission. Methos was, in Mac's opinion, one of the least delusional people he'd ever met - for him to admit to seeing ghosts was frankly astonishing.

"Yes, I know. I expect it will stop soon. It's not been three days, after all."

"No. What can I do to help?"

"Be with me?"

Mac grinned. "Well, that's easy enough. Now, I was planning to cook that meat - or would you like me to make steak tartare for you?"

He gave Methos a hand up. "No, cooked is fine," the old man said. There was still a slightly sad, lost look in his eyes, and on impulse, Mac pulled him for a hug. "Gods, Mac, what's that for?"

"You looked like you needed it," Mac said, carefully noting the complete lack of resistance before letting the Ancient go. "Come on, you're not the only one who's hungry.

 

* * *

Nothing more was said about Methos' lapse, or about anything out of the way at all. Mac cooked the steaks, Methos popped the beers, and the two of them, Mac thought, looked all the world like a couple of buddies on a fishing holiday. Their conversation was light without being strained, and the closest they came to discussing what had had to Methos was when he began to speculate about what new identity he should come up with. "Pity about Pierson," he said, stretching out on the sofa. "I liked him. Bit of a bore and a wet, but he was a real chick magnet."

"Chick magnet?" Mac said, disbelievingly.

"Oh yeah - he had all the mumsy women at Watcher headquarters making him cups of tea, saving pieces of their daughters' wedding cake for him, asking him if he was eating enough. It was great."

"But Adam Pierson never actually made into bed with any of them."

Methos held his stomach. "Oh, please, Mac - not just after I've eaten," then laughed as did Mac.

"I'm sorry about the identity."

"Forget about it - Kronos did for that. Anyway, it was time to move on. So, who shall I be? I like 'Edward Franklin', but he doesn't have the credentials I need. I presume Amanda arranged the passport in a hurry?"

"Yeah, and one day I think I'd like to know how. It's slightly scary when your girlfriend can roust up a mortar launcher and a false identity with just two meetings in Geneva."

"A resourceful girl, our Amanda."

Mac snorted. "Too bloody resourceful, if you ask me."

"No such thing. Now, I need to pick a name. I always hate this bit - it's worse than having a baby."

Over several more beers, dozen of potential names and personas were discussed and rejected. There was a dangerous half hour when Methos threatened to call himself 'Basil', but Mac managed to turn him away from that. Likewise 'Elmer', 'Cyril' and 'Aloysius' until Mac put his beer down and stood up, frustrated.

"You're doing this deliberately. Nobody wants to be 'Aloysius'," he said in exasperation.

"But Mac," Methos said with an innocent expression. "I could be 'Aloysius' with a lisp," demonstrating. "Who would suspect me of Immortality?"

"They'd suspect you were brain damaged," Mac said cuttingly. "What's wrong with names like 'Iain' or 'Stewart' anyway?"

"What, and be suspected of being the missing cousin of the Clan MacLeod? No fucking thanks." He yawned and covered his mouth politely. "Okay, looks like it's time to stop and hit the sack. Uh ..."

"With me, if you want," Mac said, letting him choose.

"Please," he said, which made Mac more happy than was actually fitting.

 

* * *

"Murgatroyd?" Methos whispered, just as Mac was sliding into sleep.

"You know, I think taking your head might be the only way to save you from yourself. Go to sleep, _Edward_."

 

* * *

Mac didn't know what woke him - all he knew was that he was suddenly, complete and harshly awake, his heart thudding and his hackles up. Methos was gone. He listened. There. Methos' voice, soft, pleading. Another crash, a chair fallen over. He jumped from the narrow bed and went to the bedroom doorway. The living room was in darkness - he switched on the overhead light. Methos stood like a deer dazzled by car lights, naked, his hands up in supplication - but not to Mac. "No! Kronos, please!" he shouted, then he clutched his hands to his chest in apparent agony. "No," he said in a failing voice, crumpling to the floor. Mac raced to his side, just in time to feel Methos' Quickening flicker out. To Mac's utter astonishment, he held a corpse in his arms. A corpse with no visible wounds, but a look of horror on his face.

Mac swore as he managed to lift Methos in his arms and stagger the short distance back to the bed, dumping the old man in the middle of it. In death, Methos possessed none of his normal languid feline grace - he was simply a jumble of overlong limbs. Mac covered him up and looked at the thin face in bewilderment - there was nothing at all to indicate the cause of death. A heart attack? Theoretically possible, even though Immortals didn't suffer from heart disease. An epileptic fit? But why call Kronos' name? Mac felt helpless, and a little angry - but at whom, he wasn't sure. He didn't think Methos had been entirely honest with him, but he had admitted to being haunted. Perhaps this was something out of his experience too? Mac thought about it, and rejected it. The afternoon's events and this latest were linked, he was sure about it.

While his mind was busy, he held his friend's dead hand and chafed it absentmindedly. He was startled when the Quickening roared back, and Methos gasped, yanking his hand out of Mac's to clutch at the vanishing pain in his chest. Waking fully, he looked at Mac in puzzlement. "What happened? Did I have a nightmare?"

"Only if it's a mass delusion." Mac told him what he saw. "Methos, if I didn't know better - I'd say you died of fright." Methos grimaced, and hauled himself out of bed. "Whoa, where do you think you're going?"

"I need a drink." Methos looked around for his boxers and settled for dragging on his jeans. Mac found his robe and followed the Ancient into the living room. He switched off the glare of the overhead light, and turned on the softer reading light beside the sofa. Squinting, he could see the clock on the microwave - 1.30 am. Wonderful.

"Make that two," he said to Methos who was pouring out a scotch. The old man handed him his drink. "Okay - I think you have some explaining to do. What did you see before?"

"Kronos." The name fell into the night's silence like a knife. "He wants something he can't have, and he's prepared to keep reminding me of his desire for it."

"And what is it?"

"Your death." Methos took a long drink from his glass and refused to look at Mac.

"Come on, Methos, you can't leave things that way. Explain."

"I swore an oath - a blood oath - to kill you. Oh, don't look at me like that, MacLeod," he said irritably. "I didn't mean to do it, then or now."

"But your subconscious thinks you should have done it?"

"Unless you really believe in ghosts, yes."

"There was no one in the room before."

"Of course there bloody wasn't!" Methos shouted, standing up and walking about agitatedly. "I told you - I'm going nuts!"

"Sit down, Methos. Sit," Mac repeated firmly. He waited until he was obeyed. "You aren't nuts."

"On what evidence do you base that assertion, Highlander?"

"On the evidence of your awareness that this must be a delusion, and your ability to resist. And no, before you say it, I'm not channelling Sean. It's just common sense."

"I wasn't going to mention Sean," Methos said quietly. "But Mac, this is driving me crazy - and as you've seen, it's literally killing me." He rubbed the spot on his chest absently, where the phantom had 'killed' him.

"Psychosomatic," Mac said firmly, not actually sure of his facts, but knowing that giving Methos reassurance was the most important thing right now. "When did you start to see them all again?"

"Kronos and Caspian? In the prison. Silas - only this afternoon." Mac wondered exactly what Sean Burns would have made of that.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Methos said instantly, but then in resignation. "But I suppose I should. Damn, I hate not being sane."

"The voice of experience?"

"We're none of us completely sane, MacLeod," Methos said dryly. "We're a race that believes in redemption by homicide, and sucking up other Immortals' power by killing them. Your average psychiatrist would have a field day with that."

" _Apart_ from that. You sound like you ... uh ..."

"Aren't the most stable person normally?" Methos completed sweetly. "Oh, mostly I am. I just have bad patches - usually following bad experiences. You never went a little crazy?"

"Oh aye," Mac said, remembering the aftermath of Culloden. "And then it stopped. This will stop."

"Sure it will. The question is - when? My record is fifteen years. I wandered the Iraqi desert eating bugs and lizards. People used to come to ask me to kiss their cloaks and their newborns, and bring me food and gifts. Being insane was quite a good gig, now I come to think about it."

"All right, I'll put a call into Ripley's Believe it or not for you - the amazing Immortal lunatic. Methos," Mac said in exasperation, "what do we do about this?"

"I don't know," Methos said helplessly. "Mac - this is a new one for me, honestly. I also don't know how much danger you're in. I could kill you in your sleep, you know."

"Then I'll tie you up and hide the swords. Methos, if Kronos could kill me through you, he would have done that by now. The only person I'm worried about is you." The startled look on Methos' face was cause for regret for MacLeod - that the old man didn't think he would care, or perhaps that anyone would care, seemed impossibly sad to the Scot. He stood and held out a hand. "Come back to bed, Methos. The middle of the night is no time to be examining these things." As he pulled Methos up, he saw the older Immortal was pale and slightly shivery. He rubbed a companionable hand up and down Methos' arm. "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if things got better now. The further you're away from your time in that place, the better you'll feel."

"I only hope you're right," Methos said bleakly.

 

* * *

When Mac awoke for the second time, he was surprised to find his face pressed into the pillow, and when he tried to use his hands to push himself up, they were restrained behind him. "Wakey, wakey, MacLeod," Methos said in a sing-song voice.

Mac twisted his head trying to see his friend. "Methos, what the fuck are you doing?" His hair was grasped painfully and his head pulled back so that he had to strain to breathe.

"I'm doing _you_ , MacLeod. God, you Scots are so slow."

"Methos, you don't need to do this," he said desperately. He got a stinging slap to his buttocks for his trouble.

"Your bitch isn't here, MacLeod. Nobody here but us chickens."

"Kronos?"

"Finally - I thought I was going to have to give you a bigger hint than that." Mac started to roll over, but stopped dead as a knife pricked his jaw. "Ah, ah, ah, MacLeod. You lie nice and still and this won't hurt a bit." Methos bent low and whispered by his ear. "Of course, you know I could be lying about that."

Something - a finger - penetrated him roughly, and he jerked from the pain. "Methos!" he shouted, hoping to break through the personality cloaking his friend. "Stop this!" The finger became two and jabbed in again. He yelled. "Don't!"

"Don't what, Highlander?" Methos/Kronos whispered seductively. "Rape you? But it isn't rape, is it, MacLeod? I've seen you watching the old man's arse, Duncan. You can't hide from me, you know. You want him. You want his cock in you like this," and another vicious jab.

"No! Methos, shake this off!" To his dismay, he felt the other man's body settle over his legs, and his buttocks were roughly parted. "Methos, please..."

"You beg all you want, MacLeod. He can't do anything. I was always stronger than him, smarter than him. You think he survived on his own in that prison? He needed _me_ , MacLeod. He called on _me_. And where were you, hmmm? When he was being raped? When he was spewing his life out all over the floor? When he was crying in the dark? It was me he turned to." Suddenly a thickness prodded at Mac's anus, and was shoved in. "He's _mine_ , MacLeod!" Kronos cried exultantly.

"You're dead, Kronos! Go back to hell!" Mac shouted, gritting his teeth against the pain of the invasion, the pounding into his unprepared body. Suddenly it stopped and his attacker pulled out.

"No," he heard Methos breathe. "Gods, no...." he whispered in a sobbing breath.

"Methos, untie me," Mac said urgently, twisting over onto his back. He saw Methos crawl off the bed, stark horror on his face, his eyes unseeing. "Methos! Please!"

"No ...." Methos froze for a moment, taking in the scene and then he fled out of the room.

"Fuck," Mac said feelingly.

 

* * *

Nude, Methos fled out of the cabin, making it to the shoreline before heaving his guts up, retching over and over until he was bringing up nothing but bile and a little blood. He stood up shakily. "No!" he shouted in impotent anger. He looked down at his body, saw the soiling from what he had done to MacLeod. He flung himself into the water, and scrubbed himself feverishly, careless of the chill, only wanting to get the evidence of his rape off him. He had to get away from Mac, away from anyone his dead brother might want to hurt. He sobbed as he scrubbed, unable to believe that he had done what he had done - that Kronos had been able to take over his mind like that. Only when he began to shake more from the cold than his disgust did he haul himself out of the water. To get away - he needed clothes and the boat, that meant going back into the cabin. In and out - he could do that.

He opened the door of the cabin, and saw the path was clear. He dashed to the bag of clothes still in the living room - Mac's, and they were dirty, but that was enough. And the sword - where had...? He looked for it, but heard Mac's agonised shout. He would have to do without it. He pulled on the jeans, shoved his feet into the first pair of shoes he saw and ran for it. He'd not got the boat's keys, so he would have to swim. He nearly made it but then ...

"Methos!" he heard Mac yell, and he was tackled to the ground by 200 pounds of pissed off Scot.

"Let me go, Mac!" he cried desperately. "I have to get away!" He scrabbled on the ground, tearing his hands, but Mac just held on by sheer force of his weight. "Please," he begged.

"Methos, calm down, just stop fighting me."

"Mac, I'm sorry, I ..." He was flipped over and Mac was astride him - completely naked and with no trace of anger on his face. "Mac, I don't know what to say ..."

"Methos," Mac said kindly, holding his face carefully between his hands, and stroking him with his thumbs. "It's all right - I know it wasn't you."

"But it _was_ me, Mac!" Methos said desperately. "Please let me go before I hurt you again. I don't want to hurt you, I never wanted to hurt you, I ..." He snapped his mouth shut.

"Yes, I know, Methos," Mac said gently. He got his hands under Methos' shoulders and pulled him up off the gravel, and into a hug. Methos couldn't stop the angry shame tears from falling. "Shhh, old man. It's okay."

"I raped you, Duncan, it's not okay."

"'Kronos raped me, Methos, and anyway, it wasn't much. I'm fine," Mac said soothingly, rubbing his back as if he was a child with wind, and not a very dangerous and possibly deranged adult male.

Methos was confused and hurting and he really, really wanted to get up off the ground and go hide in a hole. "Mac, please let me get up."

"No, Methos. You're just going to run away and I can't let you do that." Methos lifted his head off Mac's chest so he could look into Mac's eyes and show the dim-witted Scot exactly what he thought of being restrained, but was undone by the calm affection in the other man's eyes. "No, Methos. You're too important to lose."

"Duncan, you're playing with fire here, and it's you who are getting hurt."

"No, you are. Mostly you. Why don't you come back inside, have a hot shower, and I'll make us some breakfast."

Methos couldn't believe this man - fifteen minutes ago, Methos had his cock shoved up Macleod's nonconsenting arse, and now Mac wanted to make him breakfast? "I have to leave - I _want_ to leave."

"All right. But _after_ you eat and _after_ you calm down." Mac pulled him up and carefully dusted him down, apparently unconcerned about his own incongruous nudity. Under the circumstances, Methos would bite his own tongue off before commenting.

"Mac," Methos said weakly. It only got him another fierce embrace.

"Methos, we can beat this," Mac said earnestly. "Please let me try?"

He was helpless in the face of Mac's good-natured determination, and all things considered, Methos felt he owed it to the Scot to have his way. "All right."

"Good man." Mac kept a steadying arm on Methos' shoulders as they walked back inside. Damn, I could get to like that, Methos thought miserably.

 

* * *

Mac was careful to hide his feelings as he led a shaky Methos back indoors. Yes, the rape had shocked and angered him, although he told the truth when he told the other man he didn't believe it was him, but his main emotion was worry. Worry for Methos, worry for anyone who might encounter a deranged Immortal of his skill, and worry for himself, a long way down the list. He didn't know if he was dealing with a split personality, delusions or possession - what was clear was that Methos' will alone would not defeat this.

He collected some clean clothes for both of them, and ushered Methos into the little bathroom. "Mac, stay?" Methos pleaded, and surprised, Mac nodded. He sat on the closed toilet seat as Methos showered, and then handed him a clean towel. Methos looked terrible, he thought - almost worse than when they first rescued him.

"Want to watch?" he joked as they swapped places, but Methos only grimaced. Flirting, Mac realised, was perhaps a little inappropriate. He put his hand under Methos' chin. "It was not you," he said firmly. "My friend Methos ...."

"Was a rapist for a thousand years, MacLeod. He is perfectly capable of raping and killing you."

"No. You're wrong. Don't let Kronos twist the truth. That was two thousand years ago, Methos."

"Is that what you told Cassandra when she wanted you to kill me?" Methos asked bitterly, refusing to meet his eyes.

"I told her killing you would not ease her pain. The man she wanted to die no longer exists. That's why I stopped her - she was killing the wrong man."

"I think she'd disagree with you if she'd seen us this morning."

Mac took Methos' face in his hand. "Stop it, Methos. If I don't blame you, then you have no right to do so. That is my price - you let it go, I'll let it go. If you feel so guilty, then give me what I want."

Methos' eyes widened in surprise, and then he grinned a little. "My god, Duncan - and Joe calls me a manipulative son of a bitch."

Mac essayed a little bow. "I learned from the best. Now, I want to shower."

He made it quick, and refrained from anything more than the essential cleanup after the attack, even though he wanted to stand under the hot stream for hours. To have done so would make it clear to Methos what he was doing, and he could not do that to him

Slightly to his surprise, he was feeling hungry, and he thought that a fry-up might be the very thing. Methos sat at the table, not participating, looking thoroughly whipped and miserable. Mac ignored him, bustling about making coffee, cracking eggs and cooking bacon, slicing bread for toast. Methos finally stirred himself. "Nothing for me, Mac, I'm not hungry."

"Nonsense, Methos. Just try it." He kept a surreptitious eye on the old man as he made batter and poured out pancakes, and was pleased to see Methos break off a bit of toast, dip it into an egg yolk and nibble on it. By the time he turned back with a plate full of buttermilk pancakes, Methos was eating properly, if somewhat slowly.

The mountain of food disappeared, and the cold prickly feeling of the attack was replaced by the sensation of slight queasy repletion - the sign of a good breakfast, Mac had always thought. Methos looked less pale, and the hands holding the coffee mug no longer shook. "We should talk about this," he said as matter-of-factly as he could. Methos nodded, but didn't look at him. "I've been thinking - that Quickening in Bordeaux - it was one of the weirdest I've ever taken."

"Double Quickenings always are," Methos sighed.

"You've experienced them before?"

"Twice. Never with Immortals of the age of Silas and Caspian, though."

"Did you have problems after the others?"

"They took longer to settle, but apart from that - no. Mac, I think the answer is not in the Quickenings. I'm sure it's being locked up for so long. I never did take kindly to imprisonment." With dismay, Mac saw the colour was leaving Methos' face again.

"Methos, come and sit on the sofa, and calm down. You're safe with me." He didn't wait, but sat himself on the couch, and patted the seat beside him. Reluctantly, Methos joined him, and Mac took his hand. "What if the Quickenings never settled?"

"After all this time?" Methos said dubiously.

"Think about it. Coltec's Quickening overwhelmed me, and it was only with your help and the holy spring that I was able to integrate it properly. You were taken within an hour of the Quickenings, and I don't suppose you got any time after that to reassert your own personality."

"Worse than that. They did everything to break me down - it wasn't their goal, but that didn't matter. I lost myself." Methos looked at him in surprise. "Do you think that's it?"

"Makes more sense than the idea of you being crazy."

Methos frowned. "But this doesn't help, Mac. Settling a Quickening, it's something that happens. I can't will it, any more than you could control things after Coltec."

"The spring?"

"I doubt it. Might make things worse - your good side defeated the bad. I would have no confidence things would go that way. I have no wish to have Death back on the scene permanently."

No, indeed, Mac thought. "Maybe it will just get better all on its own?"

"It's getting worse, not better," Methos said bleakly. "Mac, the only thing I can think is that I should get away from you - Kronos' anger is focussed on you."

"No. Kronos is focussed on _you_. That's why he wanted me dead."

Methos shrugged. "I suppose so." He rubbed his temples. "Gods, this is giving me a headache," then he jumped as Mac's hands brushed his away, so that he could take over rubbing Methos' head and neck. "Mac?"

"Shhh." Methos gave in, and for a few minutes, Mac continued the gentle massage, feeling the ultra tense muscles ease. No wonder the man had a headache, he thought. "Methos, can I ask you something?"

"Hmmm."

"Promise you won't get mad?"

Methos' eyes, which had closed in dreamy relaxation, snapped open. "Now that's not a good sign. What is it, MacLeod?" The tension came back, and Mac took his hands away, conscious of the gaffe but deciding to plough on regardless.

"You - Kronos - said you called on him to help in the prison."

Methos sighed and moved away from Mac on the sofa. "No. Kronos was a lying bastard, Mac, never forget that."

"Did you want anyone to come?" Methos looked at his bare toes. "Methos?"

"You," he said softly.

"Me?"

"Yes, you, MacLeod," Methos said harshly. "I wanted you to come, to help me, to comfort me. Does that make you better?"

"It makes me feel wanted, yes. So you don't think I've been checking out your bum?"

"What?!"

"Kronos said he'd seen me watching your ass, that I wanted you."

"Mac - Kronos was yanking your chain."

"He wasn't wrong, though."

He was unprepared for Methos' reaction which was to stand up and glare at him furiously. "Mac, it's been a long time since rape was a form of seduction, and forgive me if my libido isn't actually working at the moment. I don't know what you're up to, but I need you to stop it. Sex is the last - the very last - thing on my mind now."

To Mac's dismay, Methos grabbed a pair of yesterday's socks, put them on and pushed his feet into his boots. "Where are you going?"

"Out. Away. Leave me alone." And then he fled.

"Fuck," Mac said.

 

* * *

Once out of the cabin, Methos just ran blindly, letting the pounding of his heart and his breathing dim the sound of Mac's voice in his ears. He did _not_ want to talk about this, he did _not_ want to know about the Highlander's feelings, he did _not_ want to listen to Kronos who had, of course, appeared at his side. He ran until his sides hurt, ran on further, until he was stumbling over the roots and branches on the ground. He fell heavily when his foot caught and lay panting on the ground, trying to get enough breath back to get up and run again.

"What's the matter, Methos?" Methos put his hands over his ears but Kronos' voice was clear anyway. "Can't handle him? He's just a boy."

"Go away! I'm not going to kill him, or fuck him, or do anything other than leave him alone!"

"Leave him to me, brother, " he heard Caspian say.

"Yes, Methos. Let Caspian have him," Silas said.

"No! None of you are here - none of you will touch Duncan MacLeod, if I have to kill myself to stop you!"

Kronos laughed. "You? The ultimate survivor? Don't be a fool, Methos. You can lie to your pretty Scot, but you can't fool us. I know you," he said, right in Methos' face.

"You don't know the first thing about me!" Methos scrambled to his feet, and ran on, up the hill towards the windmill which generated the cabin's power. He wished he wasn't on an island. He had to get away - from the voices in his head, from Mac and his strangely timed declaration of lust, from his own memories.

"You can't escape, Methos," Kronos said seductively. "I'll always find you."

" _We'll_ always find you," Caspian said.

"We're your brothers, " Silas said as Methos ran into him. "You can't leave us."

"Go away!" Methos screamed in desperation.

Kronos seized his arm and spun him around. "Not until you keep your oath, Methos."

"Fuck the oath," Methos spat.

"No, fuck you," Kronos said, and stabbed him.

 

* * *

Mac sat thinking for a half hour or so, before deciding that he couldn't leave Methos to fight his personal demons on his own. He put on his shoes and socks, and, remembering the battle he had with his own demons in the holy spring, picked up the borrowed katana Methos had been using. He wasn't sure which way Methos had gone, but then he heard shouting on the hill. He went up to the grove and found Methos retreating, yelling at an unseen foe. He looked awful, Mac thought - exhausted and sweaty, and Mac realised that he must have 'died' again. "Methos!"

"Go, Mac," Methos shouted desperately. "Before they come for you!" Whatever was pursuing Methos had him backed up against a tree.

"Methos, catch!" Mac yelled, tossing the katana.

"No! Mac ..." Methos said, horrified, but his hand reached instinctively for the flying weapon. As he caught it, MacLeod realised he had just made a hideous mistake. As soon as he secured the sword, Methos' features contorted in a sneer Mac remembered all too well.

"You really aren't very bright, are you, MacLeod," Kronos said, advancing, swishing the katana from side to side. "Methos was too soft to kill you. But I'm not."

"Holy ground, Kronos," Mac warned, backing up.

"But I'm already dead and damned, MacLeod. You, on the other hand, " he said, swinging, "are very much alive. But not for long."

"Methos!" Mac shouted, hoping to break past the possessing personality.

"Wrong, MacLeod. Our brother is not here anymore."

"Methos! Come back!" Mac turned and ran, crashing through the trees. If he could just make it back to the cabin ... He made it to the shore, but Kronos was right on his heels, and Mac stumbled as the katana sliced along his back. Kronos grabbed his hair, pulling him back.

"Say goodnight, Gracie," Kronos said. Mac twisted desperately, trying to free himself from the iron grip.

"Methos! Don't!" He watched the downward arc of the sword jerk to a halt. "That's it, Methos. Fight him." He grabbed at the hand holding his hair, and pried it off. "Methos, come back."

Methos dropped the hand holding the katana, looked at it in horror and then at Mac, appearing to realise what was going on. "No," he said flatly, backing away. "Not you, not anyone ever again." Then he raised the katana - and aimed it at his own neck.

Mac was in the wrong position to halt the blow - all he could do was throw himself at Methos' legs, and even that did not stop the blade contacting with the long neck. As the razor sharp metal bit into skin, the world exploded. Bolts of lightning pierced MacLeod, and Methos under him, twisting their bodies with the power. Methos screamed in agony - all Mac could do was to hang on as the power of three Ancient Immortals tore through him. Methos' Quickening had been released, he realised and Kronos and Caspian's personalities raged and battled with the old man's, through Mac and into Methos.

It was the longest, most powerful and most painful Quickening Mac had ever experienced - worse even than Kalas'. They two men were lifted and tossed about like autumn leaves before Mac was left sprawled on the gravel, the water lapping the shore line steaming and spitting on the boiling hot stones. He lifted his head - Methos was similarly afflicted. He dragged himself over to the older Immortal, and turned him over. To his shock, Methos wasn't breathing, and when Mac checked his heartbeat, there was nothing. Methos was dead. Mac hurriedly checked the neck wound - he hadn't imagined it, there was copious blood on Methos' shirt - but it was already healed. He'd never heard of an Immortal cutting his own head off - he only hoped that what they had just experienced was nothing more than the settling of the Quickenings they had taken before, but the images that he had received from Methos' mind disturbed him. He should not have been able to experience that - unless the old man had actually died.

He waited until he was feeling less shaky, but there was no sign that Methos was recovering. He needed to get them both into the cabin. He felt too wobbly to try and lift Methos, who for a skinny guy was surprisingly heavy, so he settled for dragging the other man along the shore, glad that Methos wasn't going to be aware of the indignity. Only at the cabin steps did he hoist Methos onto his shoulders and carry him into the cabin to put him on the bed. He stripped the other man's bloody shirt off, and as an afterthought, took his jeans and shoes off as well. Then he took his own clothes off, crawled onto the bed next to Methos and went to sleep.

 

* * *

The shrill sound of his security system alarm woke him, and he groaned. It never rains but it bloody pours, he thought. There had been no call from Charlie, so whoever it was had bypassed the store or otherwise given Charlie the slip. He staggered off the bed, noting that he'd been asleep for two hours, and that Methos was still nothing but a corpse. He pulled on his clothes and shoes and unlocked his gun cupboard, selecting a high-powered rifle with a telescopic sight. He climbed the ladder to the roof, which afforded him a perfect view of the shore on the other side for a mile in either direction, and scanned the vista with binoculars while he quickly dialled the store. No answer - that was somewhat worrying, but Mac had no time for think about that because he spotted the unwanted visitors making their way from the mainland in a motorised rubber dinghy. He trained his rifle on them, unwilling to shoot until he was sure they were badly intentioned, but then he heard the cabin door below open up.

"Mac?" he heard Methos call, then the crack of a gun and a thud which told him that the intruders had spotted Methos and shot him. He waited no longer - he picked off the gunman first, and when the other two men fired at the cabin, he shot them as well without a single twinge of conscience. Without a hand on the tiller, the boat lost power, and began to drift.

Mac ignored the boat for now, dialling the sheriff's office as he climbed down the ladder and reporting the presence of guntoting intruders. The office said they were investigating reports of gunshots at Charlie Price's store, and Mac had a horrible feeling what they would find there. He went down to the porch and found Methos just coming back to life. Mac pulled him back against the wall and helped him sit up as he coughed.

"Fuck," Methos said weakly. "That must be a record for being killed in a single day. Are you all right?" he said, peering up at Mac.

"Better than you, I think. Methos, we have a problem." He quickly told him what had happened.

"Let the civilian authorities deal with it, Mac - the more the better. In fact, that gives me an idea. You said Joey Carson told you BioKnight doesn't like publicity - well, let's give it to them. Let me call Joe."

Methos staggered back inside with Mac's mobile, while Mac cleaned up the blood on the porch. When he went back inside, Methos was looking grimly satisfied. "Right - Joe is going to get Amanda to let BioKnight know that if anything happens to you or any members of an unspecified group of 'Adam Pierson's' friends, several large newspapers will be getting letters from our solicitors with some rather sensitive information in it. And I don't think the employers of our dead friends out there will be too anxious to claim them."

"Methos - what the hell happened out there?" Mac asked, referring to the Quickening.

Methos grinned. "How the hell should I know? Now, I'm going to have a shower and present a nice normal face to the nice normal sheriff, as are you. You will play the outraged landowner and I, his harmless, slightly unintelligent English pal."

Mac shook his head as Methos disappeared into the shower to wash off two sets of blood. Mac's cell phone rang - the sheriff was reporting that Charlie Price had been found shot dead in his store, and that he, the sheriff, would appreciate Mac's coming over to the mainland in his boat to collect the police so that the gunmen's boat could be towed. Mac agreed then knocked on the bathroom door. "It's not locked, Mac," Methos called.

Mac entered into the billowing cloud of steam. Methos shut the water off and Mac handed him a towel. "You're looking cheerful," Mac said.

"It's gone, Mac. I can feel it - that feeling of being too many people in the one body has finally gone."

"Thank God I stopped you from killing yourself, then," Mac said with feeling. Methos sobered up.

"Yes, my friend, I owe you a hell of a lot, and we need to talk about it. But right now you and I have to be elsewhere."

"Charlie's dead," Mac told Methos as he dressed. Methos stood up straight and looked at him sympathetically.

"Gods, Mac - I'm sorry."

"Not your fault."

"I'm still sorry."

They got their story straight as they motored over to the shore. "How do you think they found us so quickly?" Mac asked.

"They were watching the base that day, Mac. They saw you and Cassandra leave - I guess they didn't believe me when I said you and I had nothing to do with each other. Did you use your credit card for the flights?"

Mac swore. "Fuck, yes, I did."

"What's done is done. With any luck, this will be the end of it. Heads up, time to look innocent."

Mac pulled into the jetty. "Hello, Sheriff." He had known the man for years.

"Hello, Mr MacLeod. Bad business all of this. You say you shot all three men?" Mac was helping the officer into the boat as he spoke.

"Yes - see?" The dinghy was drifting a mile or two off.

"Okay, let's go look. I don't know your friend. Sheriff Jerry Kovac. Nice to meet you, son."

Methos put out his hand. "Ed Franklin, sir. Just visiting Mac - I wasn't expecting a gun show."

"Want to tell me what happened?" the sheriff asked as Mac accelerated the boat into the body of the lake.

"My alarms went off," and the sheriff nodded - Mac had told him before about Tessa's brutal murder and his desire for security, "so we went onto the porch to have a look. First thing I knew, someone was firing shots at us. We went out the back, Ed took cover and I went up on the roof. They kept firing so I shot at them. I'm not sorry if I killed them," Mac said with complete sincerity.

"If they're the ones who shot Charlie, I won't be shedding any tears either, Mr MacLeod. But what the heck did they want out here?"

"I have no idea." Mac looked at Methos, who shrugged.

"Hey, I'm on holiday - you promised me fishing, Mac."

"Sorry, Sheriff. But you know, people have got it into their heads before that because I'm an antique dealer, that I must have a lot of stuff in my homes. I don't but it's not the first time someone's tried to rob me - or the first time guns have been used."

The sheriff grunted in agreement. They came alongside the dinghy, and Mac noted with satisfaction that all three men were quite dead, and each killed with a single shot. "Damn fine shooting, Mr MacLeod," the sheriff said.

"Don't believe in having weapons I can't use properly, Sheriff."

"Huh - I wish half the folk hereabouts thought like that. Tom Anderson nearly shot his son's head off last week, shooting at a feral dog, he said. Idiot."

They towed the boat back to Mac's cabin, where the sheriff duly noted the bullet holes and told the two Immortals they'd had a lucky escape. "Will you be staying long, Mr MacLeod?" the sheriff asked as they dropped him back on the shore where his deputy and a coroner's van were waiting.

"A couple of week. I was planning to stay for Charlie's funeral, and to see if his wife needs any help. And of course I'll stay to help the investigation."

"Oh, no need for that, Mr MacLeod. I'll be over in the next couple of days to take your statement properly but right now I want to find out who these guys are and if the guns match. I'd appreciate it if you'd stay until then."

"No problem, Sheriff. Tell Marjorie I'm sorry as hell about Charlie when you see her, and that I'll be along tomorrow. She can call me if she needs anything before then."

"Will do. You fellas take care now."

Methos waited until their boat was safely headed back to the cabin before commenting. "You're a real pillar of the community, MacLeod - I hadn't realised."

Mac bridled at the apparent sarcasm. "Charlie was a good friend, Methos. And I'm also his landlord - he leased the shop from me."

"I'm not criticising you, Mac," Methos said gently. "I'm jealous."

Mac looked at Methos' serious face, and relented. "Sorry - I'm just angry that Charlie had to die, and wondering if we're going to be on the run from BioKnight for years."

"I doubt it. Anyway - it's me who'll be on the run, not you."

"We'll see." Methos arched an eyebrow at that, but Mac refused to elaborate.

 

* * *

Methos felt wired and slightly depressed, not exactly a comfortable state. Elated at being freed from the sense of being haunted, and pumped up from the Quickenings, he still felt the languid weariness of repeated deaths, and was sorry for Mac's grief over a friend. There was more too, like dangerous undercurrents - the Quickening had briefly, intimately joined the two men and the four personalities together, and he had seen far more of the Scot's inner thoughts than he felt entirely comfortable with. Which meant Mac had done the same. Which meant that Methos' carefully buried longing for the Scot was likely an open book to him - just as Macleod's reluctant and surprisingly strong affection for and attraction to Methos was now obvious to the Ancient.

Too much had happened too damn soon and Methos was more than happy to live on the surface as Mac seemed to want to do for a while, making a very late lunch for them, talking about the practical effects of Charlie's death, and telling Methos about the community of people he had come to know well since he bought the island. Methos listened with his hand holding up his chin, making suitable noises and pinching chopped up vegetables from under Mac's hand until he threatened him with the knife. "What is it with you and raw food?" Mac groused.

"You know that was Caspian, don't you?" Methos said.

"From the little Joe had on him, I figured that. Nice guy."

"Not."

Mac looked at him. "I don't understand, Methos. I sort of get Kronos - smart, powerful, charismatic - lots of people would follow him. But Caspian and Silas?"

"Silas was a good man to have by your side, Mac. Loyal to a fault, brave, strong and obedient. A perfect soldier. Caspian hated him - they fought all the time. Caspian was Kronos' pet. He was with him when Kronos found me - I wasn't stupid enough to try and part them."

"Lovers?"

Methos grimaced. "Yes - but more like partners in crime. Similar tastes, if you get my meaning."

"And you?"

"Oh, you know me, MacLeod. I'm adaptable."

"No one's that adaptable, Methos," Mac mumbled.

"It was all a very long time ago, Duncan," Methos said gently. "Look how much you've changed in four hundred years."

"You don't have to keep telling me, Methos. I know - I saw," and then Mac flushed. "Methos ..."

" _After_ lunch, Highlander. I have a feeling I'm going to need all my energy for this."

 

* * *

The food was good, even though Methos knew Mac was distracted - he seemed incapable of doing a bad job at anything he put his hand to. They were both hungry, a side effect of the Quickenings - the other well-known side effect seemed to be on the fritz. They started with a beer each but by unspoken, mutual consent, switched to whiskey - it was a day for it. They moved to the couch, and Mac put his hand over the one Methos had stretched along the back of the seat, stroking it slowly with his thumb.

"So," he finally said.

"So," Methos repeated. "Our timing sucks."

Mac suddenly laughed. "You'd be surprised how often mine does, I don't know about you."

"This - us - is a lousy idea, Mac. I'll give you one word - Amanda."

"Two words - Joseph Dawson."

"Ouch."

"Yeah."

"I never knew - I mean I knew you saw yourself as my friend, but the rest ... I didn't know."

"You weren't meant to, Duncan. I could give myself over to mad impulses with Alexa - you're far too dangerous to do that with."

"Because I'm Immortal? Because of the Game?" Mac said with surprising bitterness.

"No, because you're _you_ , Mac. You're like a force of nature - you sweep everything before you, and leave nothing untouched in your wake. I could be lost."

"Like with Kronos?"

"Yes. You both scare the crap out of me."

"We can just stay friends - ignore the rest of it ..."

Methos turned to Mac eagerly. "Yes, of course ... Mac, whatever happens, your friendship is sacred to me. You don't know how much it hurt...." He didn't finish his sentence.

"I do, you know. I know how much it hurt me. Methos - I want you, but I don't know if I love you. I can't make, won't make you promises."

"Don't want any, MacLeod," Methos said, withdrawing his body and his hand.

"Please don't go back into your shell, Methos ... you know what are the most precious memories for me? Those few, rare times when I have seen you as you really are."

"Oh crap, MacLeod," Methos burst out. "Don't delude yourself. That man fucking you this morning - that was _me_. That was who I was, and who I could be again if I needed to be."

"No - I refuse to believe that."

"Oh, and you are such a notoriously good judge of character. Kristin knew that," Methos said acidly.

"I can see this conversation is going downhill," Mac said heavily, collecting his glass to top it up and walking outside. Methos sat fuming, not at Macleod, but his own inability to let his past go. How can I insist Mac does - did - when I keep dragging Death into everything?, he thought.

He cleaned up the lunch dishes and washed them up, made sure the kitchen was spotless. Procrastination over, he filled his own glass with Scotch and went out onto the porch. Mac was leaning on the rail, looking at the water. "Perhaps we should give it a year or two, Mac. We'll probably both meet people, and you've got Amanda."

"Of course. One person is just like any other," Mac said sarcastically. "And you know that I'm happy as long as my cock has something warm and wet to plug itself into."

"I didn't mean that, Duncan," Methos said helplessly. "But you said you don't think you love me."

"I said I don't _know_ , Methos. I'm pretty sure I can, I'm sure I could love you as deeply as I value you, like you, lust after you. But this has been a rough time for both of us."

"A rough day," Methos murmured.

"Yes." Mac resumed his stare over the lake.

Methos remembered Mac's words of the day before. He put his drink down, wrapped his arms around the big Scot from behind and hugged him hard. Mac twisted to look at him. "What's that for?" he asked, looking startled but pleased.

"You looked like you needed it. Mac - it doesn't have to be all about sex." He kissed Mac gently on the cheek, and then rubbed his face on the other man's beard.

"You mean making love."

"No - if you and I have sex, we may or may not make love. I am making love to you now, Duncan. You made love to me holding me in bed in your arms. I felt cared for. Do you have the slightest idea how rare that feeling has been in my life? Over five thousand years?"

"No, but it frightens me."

"So it should."

Methos let Mac's head rest on his shoulder as he twined his fingers in the long hair, revelling in knowing that it was he and he alone who held him and not the ghosts of dead men clamouring for a piece of both of them. Mac's body felt warm and right next to his, and Methos sighed silently, thinking how much he craved this but how much this was not their time. Give it a few years, he thought.

Mac lifted his head, and kissed his cheek. "I don't know about you, but I could do with a swim." The afternoon sun was beating down, and Methos agreed that a swim would be perfect to wash away the lingering effects of all that had happened that day. They stripped slowly and this time it was Mac who dived in first, and then waited for Methos to join him.

"You _are_ checking out my bum," Methos said accusingly, swimming over to him.

"So sue me," Mac said with a cheeky grin. "Race you to past that fallen tree?"

It was a distance of four hundred yards, and the Scot was giving no quarter. A long buried competitive instinct woke in Methos and he was determined not to lose so he applied himself. Victory was his but only by a body length. It was enough. "Hey! I won! What did I win?" he asked as Mac swam over to where he was floating.

"How about a kiss?"

"Okay." He closed his eyes and pursed his lips, but Mac disregarded his flippancy, seizing his mouth in one of the patented MacLeod smooches, hot, heavy and definitely not brotherly. "Jesus, Mac!" he gasped. "Now I know why Amanda keeps coming back."

"That and my gold credit card - one of these years, I must try doing an Adam Pierson and see if she still wants me."

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod adopting a pseudonym? Did the earth just stop revolving on its axis?"

Mac swept a wave of water over him. "Smart ass. Can I help it if I was blessed with a common name?"

"Doesn't stop Connor."

"Connor is paranoid."

Methos clutched his bosom in pretended shock. "Pseudonyms _and_ Connor abuse. Gods, what are things coming to?"

"Methos, did it ever occur to you that you might get laid more often if you didn't talk so much?"

"And how often do you think I get laid?" Methos asked, outraged.

"Not nearly enough, old man. Remember, you have no secrets from me anymore," Mac said tapping his head. He turned serious. "I know ... how bad things were for you."

Methos refused to dwell. He floated in his back and gently paddled himself back towards the jetty. "Small minded people doing small minded things, Mac. They were presented with an Immortal, and that was the best they could do with me. I still wonder what the hell they're going to do with a couple of litres of A-Grade Methos spunk."

Mac coughed out a laugh. "Make hand cream?"

"Oh yes, I can see that. Little jars in Parisian salons - 'Essence de Methos' - for 80 bucks a pot. Now why didn't I think of that, I could be rich all over again."

"Maybe there are cages of lab rats being forcibly fed the stuff to see if they live longer."

"Poor things. I wouldn't have minded donating sperm, but they insisted on taking it by force. Barbarians," he said disdainfully. Mac swam to him, and Methos found himself being held. "Gerroff," he said without anger.

"Shut up, you know you like it."

Methos wriggled and arranged them so that they were swimming together in a loose embrace. "I've always liked being held," he admitted.

"I'll let you into a secret - me too. I can live without sex, but I can't live without being touched." Methos hooted in disbelief. "It's true," Mac said, turning on the full force of his puppy eyes. "It's just when I got to bed with someone, and they touch me ...."

"One thing leads to another and, bam!"

"Well, not 'bam'. Not often," Mac said, grinning.

"Sex maniac."

"Puritan."

"After _Kronos_?" Methos said in disbelief. Mac just shrugged.

They were back at the jetty, so they climbed out and pulled on their underwear so they could sit on the porch in the sun, drying off and drinking their whiskeys. "Mac, if I owned this, I'd never live anywhere else."

"I'd miss people," Mac admitted.

"The lack of danger would compensate me, I think."

"No, I don't think so, Methos. You're addicted to the excitement, and to people. Why do you hang around me otherwise?"

"You know, this mind meld thingie is getting on my wick," Methos said in irritation, drinking off the last of his scotch.

"But you love me anyway," Mac said.

Methos touched his face gently. "Sadly, I do. Want a top up?"

He filled both their glasses up, and then came and sat next to MacLeod on the stoop, a little closer than friendliness, not as close as lovers. Not good enough for the Scot - Mac put his arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. "Mac," Methos said reproachfully, "we can't do stuff like this around Joe, you know that."

"Shhh. I'm on vacation, and what he doesn't see won't hurt him."

"So - just while we're here?" Methos could accept that, if not like it. He was, after all, supremely practical.

"Maybe - or whenever we need it."

"Hmmm, nice." Mac kissed him on his jaw, lingering a little and licking his neck. "Oooh, and that's nice, too. Stop it."

"Why?'

"Because I could get used to it."

"Your point?"

"Ma-ac...," he complained. But Methos didn't fight too hard, and let Mac nuzzle at his neck, before planting a whiskey flavoured kiss on his lips. Methos rested his head on the other's shoulder, enjoying the peace of the moment.

As the sun went down, and the mosquitoes and other dusk loving bities came out, they moved back inside. It was Methos' turn to cook, or so he insisted, producing two fluffy omelettes with salad for a light supper. He was still amazed, and grateful, that the day which had started so violently and become worse, now ended in such tranquillity and harmony between them. He would give almost anything to be able to preserve it - he realised the chances of doing so were almost nil, given what they were, but he could hope, couldn't he?

They played chess for a couple of hours, Methos winning easily against an opponent whose mind was clearly elsewhere. After the third game and Methos had again called 'checkmate', Mac sighed. Methos nudged his foot.

"What's on your mind, Duncan?"

"Charlie. I should have thought about this more carefully."

"Yes, you should." Mac looked at him in surprise. "You're absolutely right. Charlie's death is one hundred percent your fault. You should have left me to BioKnight, you should have put yourself, Amanda and all other Immortals at risk, and failing that, you should have shoved me off to Australia to go quietly insane on my own. Charlie would still be alive if you hadn't managed to piss BioKnight and the Chinese off. Is that what you want to hear?" Methos glared fiercely at the Scot, whose brow lowered with anger.

"I could have saved you and protected him - we didn't have to come here."

"Quite. We could have gone to a hotel somewhere and the concierge would have been killed, or the resort manager, or the head monk - MacLeod, those people are ruthless. If not Charlie, it would have been anyone who got in their way. I'm sorry as anything about his death, but it is not your fault. Regret his death, yes, look after the needs of his widow, yes, but don't go analysing history with 20-20 hindsight. It'll drive you nuts. And I like you the way you are, thank you."

"You make it sound so easy."

"It's anything but easy, Duncan. But it's the only way to live. Trust me on this. Now, I'm going to bed. Do you want me to sleep in the other room? There's no need any more for you to look after me." Not strictly true, but he didn't want pity.

Mac looked at him with soft, sad eyes. "Would you mind very much if I said I wanted you there, for my own sake?"

Methos walked over to Mac, and let himself be pulled into a gentle embrace. "I wouldn't mind at all, Duncan. Not in the least."

 

* * *

_He was back in the room. Gods, not again, he thought desperately. Strapped down in the chair, the bright camera light flaring into his eyes, his tormentors faceless and their hands cold and slightly clammy. "This is pointless!" he shouted._

_"It's what you deserve, brother," he heard a familiar voice whisper._

_"Kronos, you can't be in on this - they'll kill you too." He looked wildly about but the blazing white light was merciless._

_"No one can hurt me any more, Methos. You, dear brother, are still at their mercy. Isn't this fun?"_

_"No, Kronos - let me up. Nooo...don't," he begged, as he felt the cold metal slide into his rectum and bump his prostate. Something else was inserted into his cock, and then they switched on the power. He screamed his impotent rage at the pain and the indignity, but then his jaw was seized._

_"You've gone soft, brother," Kronos said in a sibilant tone. "Time was when you would take anything up there and love it."_

_"No," Methos said through gritted teeth. A greased finger probed him, and he gasped._

_"Oh, yes, brother, I remember. You loved this, and you loved to do this to others. This is just desserts, don't you think?"_

_"No! I'm not like that any more!" Methos yelled. He struggled fruitlessly against the restraints_

_"Once a rapist, always a rapist, Methos. And once a bumboy, always a bumboy. Turn him over," Kronos ordered curtly. Methos knew the real pain had only just begun and he braced himself in anticipation. "Relax, brother. Once I'm done with you, I'm going to take that pretty Highlander of yours too and show him a few things."_

_Duncan? "No! Anything you want, Kronos, but not that!"_

_"Ah, Methos. When will you learn? I can take anything I want and that too. Now, hush, brother, we wouldn't want me distracted, would we?"_

 

* * *

Methos woke screaming, his heart almost bursting out of his ribs. He was being restrained and he thrashed wildly, spitting and shouting his defiance. "Methos! Calm down!" He came fully awake, and realised it wasn't Kronos who had him pinned down, leering at him, but Mac, staring at him with a puzzled, worried expression. He stopped struggling.

"Let me go, Duncan, please," he begged, and Mac obeyed instantly. Methos scooted up to sit against the headboard and hugged himself. It had been so real, he could smell Kronos' breath, feel the Horseman's calloused hand on his hip.... Mac touched the tears on his face, and Methos scrubbed at them, embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be silly," Mac said kindly, settling against him and pulling him close. Methos couldn't control the shuddering breaths, the remnant of his terror, and he was content for long minutes just to let the warmth of Mac's body soothe his anxieties. Mac's hand stroked his hair in gentle circles, and the calm beat of the man's heart pulled Methos' own into its rhythm. Eventually he found he was starting to doze off, and he slipped down under the covers again. Mac kept a loose hold of him, encouraging him to lie on his chest which made a warm, slightly ticklish and completely comfortable pillow. "Be at peace, my friend," Mac said quietly, kissing the top of his head. His words guided Methos back into sleep.

When he woke again, he found he had swapped places with Mac, who was now sleeping with his head on Methos' shoulder, his hair fanning behind him, one broad hand planted on Methos' stomach. Of all the sweet ways to wake up, he thought, putting his hand on top of Mac's. He dozed again, only to wake a half hour or so later to find Mac's warm tongue laving a nipple, and his hand stroking lazily up and down Methos' hip. "Mac, what are you doing?" he said quietly.

"Making love to you, Methos."

"Duncan ...."

"Shhh. I know. You'll like this, I promise." Heavy-bodied from sleep, and loving what Mac was doing, Methos was in no mind to argue. He knew if he really objected, Mac would stop, and right now, he didn't want that at all. He twisted his hand in Mac's sleep tangled locks and began to massage his scalp. Mac's touch was so light, so rhythmic, he felt himself beginning to doze off again. He almost missed when Mac abandoned his nipple and began to lick and kiss his way slowly, maddeningly, down his stomach. Methos' cock was finally taking an interest in the proceedings, and Mac brushed his fingers lightly down the shaft. That's all he did - he just tickled carefully, trailing feathery touches over Methos cock and over his balls, ruffling the hairs, and all the while caressing Methos' stomach with his lips and his tongue. It went on for what seemed like an hour, and Methos' erection was getting harder by the minute. Finally Mac lifted his head. "Do you want me to stop?"

"Do you want me to kill you?"

Mac laughed and resumed. But not quite. Now it was clear where his mouth was headed, and Methos had to restrain himself from begging. Oh you clever lad, he thought. You snuck this up on me, and I didn't even remember to be worried. Mac flicked the very end of Methos' cock with his tongue, and Methos sucked in a breath, then forgot to breathe at all as his cock was engulfed in Mac's mouth, taken deeply. He made himself let go of Mac's head and put his hand on Mac's back instead, kneading the long muscles. He spread his legs, and Mac's hand slipped lower, stroking lightly, carefully, under his balls, but no more, and all the while, worshipping Methos' sex. Methos thought he should really stop the Highlander - he thought it would be impossible for him to come, so programmed had he become by the torture he had endured - but the building tension in his balls, the delicious tightening of all his nerves and muscles told him that he would soon ... was now ... Gods! His orgasm took hold of his body like a little earthquake. Mac swallowed all he gave him and then rested his head on Methos' thigh, his softened cock still in his mouth, gently licking it from time to time. Now Methos could stroke the Highlander's hair. "Come up and kiss me, Duncan," he said, and Mac moved up and did just that. "You are beautiful, you know that?"

"And you are the sexiest man - you made me come, just listening to the sounds you were making."

"Really?"

"Yes, old man, really. How do you feel?"

"Sucked dry."

Mac chuckled and made himself comfortable. "There's not much wrong with the world that a blowjob can't fix," and Methos laughed.

"You realise now that you'll have to let me reciprocate."

Mac rolled up onto his elbow and looked at him with amusement. "Methos, you need to work on your line in threats, because I have to tell you I'm not at all worried by that one."

"I may have to reciprocate more than once," Methos deadpanned.

"Oooh, now I'm terrified."

Methos looked at the clock. "Go back to sleep, Duncan - gods, it's only six am," he groaned. He'd thought it was later, because the summer sun had made the room so bright.

"Want to go for a run?"

"Want me to take your head?"

"Touchy, touchy."

"Go back to _sleep_ , MacLeod," Methos said firmly, and kept a grip on the annoying Scot in case he got any more fool ideas about exerting himself and his lover.

 

* * *

The following days, compared with the dramatics of the previous two, were subdued, almost sepia coloured in tone. Mac visited Charlie Price's widow and offered whatever financial or legal help she wanted. He was pleased to find she thought she would take over running the store, and told her that he would give her a two year holiday from the rent as a boost. He also stopped in at the sheriff's office and made a formal statement, carefully rehearsed with Methos, who likewise gave his version of events. Any serious digging would find the lies, but Mac knew the sheriff would regard the matter as open and shut, and good riddance to the gunmen. BioKnight certainly wouldn't stir things up, and the Chinese would be anxious to avoid further incidents on western soil. The matter of the video footage that had been shot continued to worry him, but discussing it with Methos, they decided that even the most damning film would be deemed a fake without a real live Immortal to back it up. For now, Mac was content to let things settle, and for Methos to slip into a new, unassuming persona back in Paris, where they planned to head after they left the island.

Methos spent a lot of time walking on his own, which worried Mac slightly until he saw the peaceful expression on the old man's face when he returned. When Methos was with him, affection was sought and granted freely on both sides - it was an aspect of Methos Mac had seen when he'd first fallen in love with Alexa, but which Mac never thought would be shown to him. He was a generous and sweet lover, grateful for small kindnesses and giving in return. Mac found himself pulled ever more towards him, but his relationship with Amanda and the wider problems of two powerful Immortals, both active in the Game, made him hold back. Methos had made it clear that he intended to get out of Europe for a year or two, which would give them both time to think about what they wanted.

The bad dreams continued, but diminished night by night in their intensity. Methos joked that Mac's preferred therapy was actually inciting his id to continue whipping up nightmares, but Mac noticed that Methos didn't protest too much. All that mattered was that Methos' ordeal was slowly being put behind him. Full healing would take longer, but the worst was over.

They decided they would leave a week after the funeral. It poured rain as the burial itself took place, which seemed appropriate, and afterwards, Mac and Methos went to the Price home for tea and sandwiches as befitted a well known semi local and his visiting friend. Mac was good at small talk - what surprised him was how adept Methos was at it. The old man rarely bothered when he was with Joe or Mac, but then, Mac reflected, it would be insulting to all of them if he did. Methos slipped smoothly into 'Adam Pierson' mode, and Mac got a front seat view of the effect he had on middle-aged ladies. He saw one or two matrons eyeing him up in a fashion distinctly at odds with the sad occasion, and several local lovelies (or what passed for them) were introduced to him. Mac had to drag him away finally.

"You're bloody impossible," he growled as he got into the boat.

"Is it my fault that eligible bachelors are thin on the ground here?" Methos said with the most beguiling, innocent look in his eyes - totally fake, Mac well knew.

"You were encouraging them - all this 'when I was up at Oxford' and 'the lights of Paris' stuff. Jesus, these people think putting French mustard in salad dressing is sophisticated!"

"Just doing my best to reinforce your position in society, Macleod."

"I'll 'reinforce' you," Mac grumped.

The days passed quietly and peacefully but at last it came time to go. Their last day, they packed and cleared up, then took a final swim. The afternoon rain had cleared and the air was sparkling. "Feel like staying?" Mac asked, lazing along Methos who was looking wistfully over the lake.

"Some. But my life's been on hold for long enough. Besides, I need to find out what Amanda 'disappeared' when she took down 'Adam Pierson's' life."

"She always gives things back, you know. It just might take a century or two."

"It's what she's doing with them in the interim I'm worried about."

They spent that last evening as they had the previous ones, leaning on each other on the porch, drinking Scotch slowly, talking quietly, thighs brushing against each other. "Will you write?" Mac asked, stroking Methos' nape.

"Email? Sure. I'll come back, Duncan. I can't seem to keep away from you. There's Joe too. You know, in that place, I was sure I would never see him again."

"Their lives are so fucking short," Mac said bitterly.

"All the more precious for that, and no less worth sharing. Would you really want to forget the years with Tessa? I know I would not want to lose a single memory of Alexa, for all it hurts like hell."

"And of this?" Mac asked, gently nuzzling under one of Methos' prominent and utterly lickable ear lobes.

Methos sucked in a breath. "Not one single millisecond. Even the bad stuff. If I live to be twice the age I am now, I will not forget this time, Mac."

Mac turned Methos' face to his and kissed him on the lips. "Methos, I want you to make love to me. Completely." He needed to overcome Methos' shock at the request. "I know the difference. So do you. Take me."

Methos closed his eyes and shuddered. Mac feared he had awoken some bitter recollection but when the hazel eyes opened, the pupils were wide and black, Methos' face a picture of pure lust. "Damn," he whispered. "If we don't get inside now, I may come in my pants."

Mac stood and pulled him up. Methos gripped him tight, and rubbed against him. "Feel that, Duncan? Can you feel what you are doing to me?" he asked huskily.

"Aye, old man." Mac pulled Methos' hand down to his groin. "Feel me too."

"Oh, I intend to, Highlander - in every possible way." Methos touched his cheek. "Answer me this, Duncan. Why now?"

Mac caught his hand and kissed the tips of his fingers, before placing the trapped hand over his own heart. "Because we must become different people in Paris. Because I want this for you and me alone before that happens, before we have to account to others, before you go away."

Methos closed his eyes and swayed a little. "Gods, Mac," he whispered. "This may never be enough for me."

"Good, Methos. Then you will come back." He tugged Methos by the hand, and led him inside to their bedroom. "You want this, right?" he asked.

"Mac, stop toying with me. Yes, I want this so much I think I might explode before I get inside you. Please," and the naked need in Methos' voice made Mac shiver. He slipped his hands inside the waistband of Methos' boxers and pushed them down. Methos made no move to help, nor to remove Mac's own - from the way he was trembling, Mac knew he was holding himself in tightly and had no control left for anything else. He lay down and pulled Methos on top of him.

"Now, old man. Be inside me."

Shaking hands caressed his cheek. "We need ..."

"Drawer." He didn't wait for Methos to fumble for it but reached into the bedside table and pulled out the little tube of lubricant. He handed it to Methos. "I want you so bad," he said and his answer was a deep, tonsil hugging kiss. Methos let go with every sign of reluctance and knelt up.

"Can I watch you?"

"Yes." Mac spread his legs and Methos lifted one onto his shoulder. He spread a little gel on his finger and rubbed over Mac's entrance, teasing him. Mac groaned a little and Methos shivered.

"Jesus, Mac."

"Hurry," Mac whispered. Methos slid a careful finger in. Mac bit back a moan and Methos grabbed his own cock.

"I can't hold on," Methos said almost desperately.

Mac put his hand over Methos'. "Don't want you to."

Feverishly, Methos  hastily squirted lube on his sex and lifted Mac's other leg up. Mac felt the tentative nudging at his entrance. "Go on - I won't break," he urged, and saw Methos bite his lip.

Still maddeningly slow, Methos eased his cock through the tight ring of muscle and suddenly he was in. He moaned, and slid the rest of the way in. "Yes!" he said breathlessly. "Oh Gods, Mac, I've dreamed of this ..."

"It's no dream." He clasped the old man's hands in his. "I want you now, Methos!" He bucked his hips, and with another moan, Methos began to move. Slowly, powerfully, up to the very base of his cock until Mac thought he would scream with the delicious feeling of fullness and cry from the emptiness when Methos pulled out, only to thrust in carefully. Mac wanted to touch his own cock, but Methos lifted his hand away carefully.

"Nn... no, Mac," he slurred, the tendons in the long neck straining, exercising more control than Mac would have thought possible. "Leave it for me." Mac ached with the need to come, but he obeyed. Methos shifted him higher and now each stroke was hitting the sweet spot. How he didn't come was a mystery to him - Methos' shout as he climaxed was nearly enough to send him over - but his cock was still proudly and painfully erect as Methos lowered his legs. He slipped out of Mac's body then shimmied down gracefully to rest his head in Mac's groin and take his erection in, deep throating him. Mac's hips bucked involuntarily but Methos rode with him, giving no mercy, sucking, pulling his orgasm from him. Mac called his lover's name as he came,  crying out his release. Methos kept his mouth around Mac's cock until Mac had to urge him to let go. "Come to me, Methos," he asked.

Methos wriggled up the bed until he lay beside Mac, who held him to his chest. "Thank you."

Methos touched his face, mapping it with his finger tips. " I will come back."

"Yes," Mac said. "You will."

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written nearly twenty years ago under another pseudonym. It hasn't been revised (or reread by me) since then.
> 
> I am posting this and my other stories from this period purely so people can read them if they choose. I won't be reading comments, and don't care if you leave kudos. I'm dumping them and running.
> 
> Having said that, I worked hard on them, and I hope they still entertain someone out there.


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